POV: Zarela Dunrath
The sky was crying harder than I was that day Victor Dunrath was buried.
It had been raining all morning. Thick gray clouds covered the sky, the wind howling like it was mourning something deeper than death itself. The rain hammered the cemetery as if trying to wash away every trace of him.
Too late for that.
Victor lay six feet beneath me in a polished black coffin, dressed in the same navy suit he'd worn on the day we closed the Manhattan Harbor deal, the day we got married.
That day, I'd seen him smile without any hidden agendas. I thought he might be human then. I let him hold my hand without pulling away.
That was twenty years ago.
Now, the earth swallowed him without a sound, and I didn't shed a single tear.
I didn't need to.
I'd cried enough behind closed doors, in silence, praying he wouldn't come home angry, drunk, or suspicious. I'd mourned the life I thought I bought with our marriage, the safety I never really got, and the promises that turned out to be nothing but gilded cages.
Victor Dunrath wasn't a husband.
He was a transaction.
And now he was gone.
But peace? That was nowhere to be found.
Because the moment I turned away from his grave, I saw him.
Caleb.
He stood apart from the crowd, black coat soaked through, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His head tilted slightly as he watched me, not the coffin, not the mourners, but me. His gaze was sharp, burning like a punishment.
The last time I saw him, he was twenty-two. He was reckless and furious, barely holding back a storm. He cursed Victor at the wedding, threw a glass at the wall, and disappeared into the night.
That was four years ago.
Now, Caleb was twenty-six.
And he wasn't a boy anymore.
His jaw was sharper, his shoulders broader. The wildness in his eyes was still there but controlled, like a blade sharpened over time. He looked like Victor, with the same dark eyes and the same commanding presence, but also like someone else entirely.
Someone dangerous.
And in that moment, I knew he hadn't come to mourn.
He came to confront.
The funeral ended with soft murmurs, umbrellas opening like tired wings, and expensive shoes squishing in the wet grass. I stood alone under a black canopy as Victor's business associates filed past me, their polite condolences thinly veiling greed.
One whispered about the will. Another muttered about the estate. Someone called me "the young widow" without even lowering their voice.
Let them talk.
Let them think I was just a trophy wife. The pretty pawn who outlived the king.
They had no idea what I'd survived behind the walls of Dunrath Manor. What Victor's version of love had cost me.
As I turned to leave, my heel sank in the mud. I looked down, and then up, and there was Caleb blocking my path.
Neither of us said a word.
The rain came down harder between us, drumming on the canopy like a warning.
Finally, he spoke. "Nice dress. Mourning suits you."
The venom in his voice was subtle but deliberate.
I stared at him. "You flew all this way just to be sarcastic?"
"I came for answers."
"You'll have to wait your turn."
His eyes narrowed. "Did you kill him?"
The question hit me like a slap.
I didn't flinch. I'd learned better than that.
"If I had," I said quietly, "I wouldn't have let you show up today."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Still sharp. I remember."
"I don't remember you being this rude."
"You don't remember much about me at all."
He brushed past me, his shoulder just grazing mine, a reminder that he was bigger, stronger, and here to make a point.
I didn't watch him leave.
But I felt the storm he left behind.
By the time I returned to Dunrath Manor, the rain had softened to mist. The staff had cleared the funeral flowers like they were erasing evidence.
The grand hallway greeted me with polished marble floors, golden chandeliers, and portraits of Victor lining every hallway.
I felt nothing.
This was my home now.
I'd survived for it.
Yet I still felt like a stranger.
I headed straight to the study, Victor's sanctuary, the one room he always kept locked. Now, it was mine.
Or so I thought.
Because when I pushed the door open, Caleb was sitting in Victor's leather chair.
Feet on the desk.
A glass of scotch in hand.
I froze in the doorway.
"You're trespassing."
He didn't look up. "The deed still has my last name on it."
"Not for long. The will was clear."
He took a slow sip. "Money, titles, property; my father was generous to his women."
"And merciless to his son," I said softly.
That caught his attention.
He looked up, eyes cold. "Don't pretend you understand."
"I'm not pretending. I'm surviving."
He stood and crossed the room in two steps. Now we faced each other, the scent of scotch and rain thick between us.
"You survived, Victor?" he asked, voice low.
"I did more than that."
His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes.
For a terrifying, breathless moment, I thought he might kiss me.
But he didn't.
He stepped back and poured another drink.
"You're not scared of me."
"Should I be?"
"You should be scared of what I know."
I leaned against the doorframe. "Then tell me."
He smiled darkly. "Not yet. I want to see how this plays out."
"You're playing games with a grieving widow."
He raised his glass. "Are you really grieving?"
I said nothing.
Because the truth was complicated.
Because part of me was relieved Victor was gone.
And part of me was terrified of what came next.
Caleb drank, then headed for the door but stopped beside me.
"I'm staying in the east wing," he said. "Unless you want me in the master bedroom."
My heart skipped.
"You're disgusting," I whispered.
He leaned close. "And you're not as innocent as you pretend."
Then he left me there, alone.
With silence.
With shame.
And the scent of the only man who ever truly scared me…
Because I didn't know if I wanted to push him away…
Or pull him closer.