Amelia Harlow
That was not just a smile. That was a smirk.
From the window of my room, I saw Victor Ashford standing in the front yard with Helena. His lips curved, his eyes sharp, as though they shared a secret only they could understand. A secret I desperately needed to uncover.
Today is Thursday. The Ashford family dinner. A tradition that has been alive for decades, one where every family member is required to attend. No excuses. No absences.
I have been studying their faces for days now. Every expression, every flicker of the eyes, every twitch of a smile. The way their voices rise and fall, the way their gazes meet—or don't. All of it matters. Somewhere among these subtle movements lies the truth. Nathan's murderer. I want him—or her—exposed. I want them to hang for what they've done.
It's been a week since Nathan's death. My parents left yesterday, their faces lined with worry but their hands tied by the Ashfords' insistence that I stay. I told them I needed to. And I do. Because Nathan's will is to be read next Sunday, ten days from now. Until then, I must remain here, inside this mansion filled with secrets, masks, and whispers.
Nathan had six siblings. Including him, they were seven—four brothers and three sisters. Nathan was the youngest, only twenty-four. The eldest brother, Marcus Ashford, is thirty-five. Then Helena, the eldest sister at thirty-four. After them came Victor, Cordelia, Samuel, and Grace.
Their parents, Dominic and Lilith, rule the household like a king and queen—one stern and unyielding, the other soft and warm. Dominic is sixty now, still carrying himself with an air of command. Lilith is fifty-seven, gentle in every gesture.
A sudden knock pulls me out of my thoughts.
"Come in."
The door opens to reveal one of the butlers, dressed in the Ashfords' signature black suit. His voice is low and respectful.
"Everyone has arrived for the family dinner, miss. They are waiting for you."
"I'm coming."
He bows slightly, closes the door, and leaves me alone with my racing heart.
I don't want to go. I don't want to sit at that long table with people who may have had a hand in Nathan's murder. The same family that rushed to close the case, stamping it as an accident. An accident? Who falls from a fourth or fifth floor by mistake? Who crashes against marble and leaves behind shattered bones and blood like a crime scene—yet still, they call it an accident?
But I have no choice. Because of Lilith.
The only person I feel I can trust here is her. She has been like a mother to me. Every evening she comes to see me, bringing soup she says she made with her own hands. She sits with me, talks softly, and wipes my tears. Without her, I might have already lost my mind.
I slip into a simple blue dress and force myself to walk to the garden. The dinner table is set beneath strings of golden lights that sway gently in the night breeze. The plates and glasses shimmer, the food arranged like art. Everything looks beautiful, expensive, and almost unreal.
But the people. Their eyes. That is what sends a shiver through me.
They are all watching me. Some with polite smiles, others with something unreadable behind their gazes. I can't decide if it's curiosity, judgment, or cruelty. Maybe all three.
I take the seat beside Lilith. She immediately reaches for my hand, pressing it gently. Her warmth seeps into me, grounding me for a brief moment. Her smile is tender, almost enough to make me forget where I am. Almost.
We begin eating. The clink of silver forks against porcelain fills the air, a sound too delicate for the storm raging inside me. I can't hold it in anymore.
I place the napkin on my lap, straighten my back, and speak.
"Why did you label his murder as an accident?"
The words cut through the evening like a blade.
Silence.
Every hand freezes. Forks stop halfway to mouths. Glasses pause inches from lips. No one breathes. No one moves.
Marcus clears his throat first, his voice heavy. "That's enough, Amelia. We are trying to move on. Don't tear open wounds that cannot be healed."
My chest burns. "Wounds don't heal when the truth is buried with them. Nathan didn't fall by himself. Someone pushed him."
Cordelia lowers her fork gently onto her plate, her eyes sharp. "You're grieving. It's clouding your judgment. We've all seen the reports. The police confirmed it was an accident."
I slam my hand on the table before I realize what I've done. The plates rattle, and everyone stares. "Reports can be bought. Police can be paid. You all know that better than anyone."
Victor smirks—the same smirk I saw earlier from the window. "Be careful with your words, Amelia. This is our home. Our family. You're a guest here."
I lean forward, my voice low but steady. "I'm not your guest. I'm Nathan's wife. And I will find out who killed him."
Another silence. This one is heavier. The sound of rain begins in the distance, soft at first, then growing stronger, as though the sky itself demands truth.
Lilith squeezes my hand under the table, her thumb brushing against my skin. When I glance at her, her eyes are filled with something I can't fully understand—sorrow, fear, and maybe even warning.
Finally, Dominic speaks. His deep voice commands the space. "Enough. We will not discuss this at the dinner table." He stares at me, firm, cold. "Nathan's death was an accident. That is the end of it."
But it isn't. Not for me.
As the others return to their food, pretending nothing was said, I watch them closely. Their eyes betray them. Victor's smirk, Helena's darting glance toward Marcus, and Samuel's nervous tapping on the table. Little cracks in their perfect masks.
I know it now. I'm surrounded by liars.
And somewhere among them sits my husband's murderer.