Page 68 of Filthy Rich Single Daddies

Her gaze moves to Theo beside me, and for a moment, something flickers across her face—shock, surprise, maybe even a touch of disdain. It’s gone in an instant, but not before I notice.

She doesn’t like it. My presence at this "event" or Theo's presence at my side.

Her mouth tightens, her gaze lingering for a beat too long, calculating. She won’t make a scene. Not yet. Not until she can maximize the damage.

She smooths a perfectly manicured hand over her hip, then turns back to the guests, the picture of composed devastation.

It won’t last.

I take my seat near the back, Theo following suit, our presence acknowledged only in stolen glances and shifting shoulders. No one speaks to me. No one asks why I’m here. They already know I don’t belong.

The service drags on, an endless stream of hollow words that feel foreign when attached to my father. They call him generous. They call him a man of integrity. They call him a loving husband, a devoted patriarch. I stare at the casket, wondering if he’d recognize the version of himself being eulogized.

Then, silence. A beat too long. A moment stretched thin.

And then—

Trista moves.

She dabs at her eyes, her breath shuddering just enough to be heard, before she rises from her seat. The widow in black. The tragic, grieving wife.

And I know. This is the moment she’s been waiting for.

“I just…” She pauses, swallows, gathers herself. “I just want to say a few words.”

She turns to face the mourners, but her gaze lands on me.

"I know we all want to honor my husband's memory today," she begins, voice soft yet clear, a well-rehearsed tremor giving itweight. "And I know he would have wanted this day to be about love. About family."

She sighs, her fingers tightening around the handkerchief she hasn't actually used.

"But it pains me that some people—" A pause. A glance in my direction. "—don't understand the meaning of respect."

The air in the room shifts. Attention locks onto me.

I stay quiet. My jaw clenches, but I remain still. I know the role she’s trying to force me into. She won’t get it. Not this time.

Trista leans into the moment, her lips quivering as she turns toward the mourners, voice rising in false indignation. “He would have wanted peace,” she continues. “He would have wanted dignity. And instead, we have…this.”

Her gaze drifts over to me again, her lips curling with a smirk before it disappears behind another tearful gesture.

I inhale sharply through my nose but I don’t flinch.

She’s baiting me.

She wants a reaction, a reason to turn me into the villain of her carefully spun tragedy.

I won’t give it to her.

The hush in the room feels suffocating, like the air itself is holding its breath, waiting for the next act in her performance.

Trista looks around, her eyes wide with faux shock, lips trembling just enough to make it convincing. “I tried. I tried to make him happy,” she says, her voice rising as she glances at the mourners. “I gave him everything. My love, my devotion, my loyalty.”

Her words roll off her tongue like velvet, but I know the truth. She gave him nothing but control and self-interest. But I don’t speak. I just watch her, every word from her mouth pulling at the seams of my own restraint.

“But there are some people here today,” she continues, her eyes cutting to me again, “who…who just can’t seem tounderstand the importance of family. Of sticking together, through thick and thin. Who want to make this aboutthem.”

The guilt-tripping is blatant. She’s the tragic widow, forsaken and misunderstood, and I’m the heartless stepdaughter ruining her grief. She waits for the murmur of sympathy that follows, as if she’s already calculating the success of her performance.

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