Chapter 2: Secrets Beneath Black Ribbons

“Miss, what’s your relationship to Mr. Rivera? Why come to mourn and still cover your face?”

Her voice was sharp enough to hush the room. I could feel every eye on me, the air thick with expectation. Great.

I pinched my throat and pretended to be shy:

“I was burned on the face by boiling water as a child, and Mr. Rivera saved my life. Hearing of his passing, I am deeply saddened, but my scars are ugly. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

I ducked my head further, letting my hair fall forward. My voice trembled just enough to sound believable. The old story worked like a charm—Chicagoans always had a soft spot for a tragic underdog.

Father had been a small-town doctor before going into business—everyone in the family knew.

He’d always kept a battered black bag by the door, ready to help anyone who knocked. The neighbors still told stories about how he’d saved their children from scarlet fever, how he never charged a dime if you couldn’t pay.

The partner dismissed her doubts, put on a sorrowful expression again, handed me a flower, and went to receive other guests.

She pressed a white lily into my hand, her grip lingering just a second too long. Then she turned away, voice low and mournful as she greeted the next mourner. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

I knelt to offer flowers, grief surging in my heart.

I bowed my head, pressing the flower to the casket. Memories of my father’s laugh, his gentle hands, flooded back. Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them away.

What a twist of fate! Dad finally escaped prison, only to be taken by a common cold.

Life’s cruel like that. After everything he’d survived—the accusations, the trial, the nights spent staring at the ceiling in a cell—he was undone by something as simple as a cough.

Had I known, why would I have gotten involved with Ethan Blackwell, and gone to such lengths to fake my death?

Regret sat heavy in my stomach. If I’d just stayed, maybe things would’ve been different. But that door had closed long ago, and now I was just a stranger at my own father’s funeral. Too late now.

Suddenly, someone tugged at my sleeve.

The touch was gentle, almost hesitant. I turned, heart leaping into my throat.

I turned around, only to see Lucas staring at me intently, calling softly:

“Sis.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the noise of the room like a bell. I felt the urge to pull him into a hug, but forced myself to stay still.

I froze, at a loss. “Kiddo, you’ve got the wrong person, I’m not… not your sister!”

I kept my voice low, glancing nervously at the partner across the room. Lucas just grinned, undeterred.

He smiled, his eyes and eyebrows curving, a dimple appearing at his lips.

That dimple—just like Dad’s. I almost lost it right then.

“Sis, I’m hungry. Will you buy me a caramel apple?”

His whiny tone—exactly like when we were kids. My heart softened. I patted his head, took a few dollars from my purse, and pressed them into his palm.

“Only one, okay? Kids who eat too much candy get toothaches. Don’t let your mom see.”

I tried to sound stern, but my voice shook with affection. I slipped the bills into his hand, squeezing his fingers just a moment longer than necessary.

Lucas replied with a firm “Mm” and ran off in a flash.

He shot me a conspiratorial grin before darting through the crowd, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. I watched him go, heart aching with nostalgia. Some things never change.

I smiled knowingly.

For a second, it almost felt like coming home.

Though Dad’s partner was sharp-tongued and often whispered in Dad’s ear, Lucas’s mind was pure, and he never held anything back from his half-sister.

He’d always been my little shadow, following me everywhere. Chattering about school, about friends. Even after the partner tried to turn him against me, he’d sneak into my room at night, clutching his stuffed bear.

On the day of the burial, he’d still been innocent, thinking it was a game. Until he saw my coffin being covered with dirt, then he threw himself over, crying and screaming not to let his sister be bitten by bugs, wanting to dig me out.

I could still hear his cries echoing across the cemetery, his small hands clawing at the dirt. God, that memory still hurts. The memory twisted in my chest, equal parts pain and tenderness.

Silly kid.

Dad is gone now. You have to support this family with the partner.

I wanted to tell him to be strong. Look after yourself, kid. But the words wouldn’t come, so I just watched him disappear.

After bowing my head, I got up to leave, when a cold wind suddenly blew in from the front door. The wind chimes on the porch rang sharply. The long-burning candles flickered.

The temperature dropped in an instant, the kind of chill that seeps through your bones. The wind chimes clattered, their song harsh and discordant. Guests murmured, pulling their coats tighter.

A tall figure walked in against the light.

His silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the gray afternoon sky. For a second, no one spoke. Even the air seemed to freeze.

He removed the ceremonial saber at his side, took off his military cap, shook out his hair, and lifted his chin, revealing a face stained with blood.

Blood streaked across his cheek, a fresh cut above his eyebrow. His uniform was immaculate, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. He looked like hell.

Seeing who it was, my eyelids twitched. I hurriedly hid behind someone, only daring to peek through the crowd.

My heart hammered. I pulled my scarf higher, shrinking into the shadows. Last thing I needed was to be recognized.

The man knelt on both knees. He raised the bouquet above his head. Bowed three times to the casket. His voice rang out, loud and deep:

“Son-in-law Blackwell bids farewell to Dad.”

His words echoed through the silent room, drawing a collective gasp from the mourners. I felt my breath catch in my throat.

Son-in-law? He still calls himself ‘son-in-law’? Seriously?

It made no sense. My death had severed the last tie between our families—at least, that’s what I’d thought.

I’ve been dead for years—no kids, nothing tying me to the Blackwells. So why is Ethan here, at my father’s funeral?

The question gnawed at me. He’d never been sentimental—so why now?

Puzzled, I tightened my scarf, slipped out of the Rivera house like I was fleeing, and stayed at a motel on the outskirts, planning to leave Chicago at dawn.