Page 12 of The Merciless Don's Bride

I never got to say goodbye to my father.

That’s what hurts the most. The thought hits like a punch to the gut, sharp and mean. I squeeze the tissue tighter until it shreds in my fist. He’s right in front of me, his body lying in a coffin. I always thought it was morbid when people would do an open casket. Seeing a loved one lying there lifeless, feels like adding salt to a gaping wound. My father’s coffin is closed. I refuse to remember him as anything else other than the vibrant man who told me he loved me and promised to always protect me.

His picture’s on an easel, his brown eyes piercing and the proud look on his face frozen in time. It’s one of my favorite pictures of him. He’s not smiling in it but there’s a subtle element of happiness in the picture as well. He took it after his company really took off, became the million dollar corporation it is today.

A soft rustle breaks the stillness in the church as the doors creak open behind us.

My stomach twists.

There’s a shift in the air. Palpable. Heavy.

Someone walks in like he owns the building. No. Like he owns everything inside it.

Tall. Dark suit. Cold, cutting eyes that sweep the room with disinterest. That is… until they land on me and stay there.

The moment our eyes meet, something deep in my bones clenches. My heart stutters. Not fear exactly, but not comfort either.

There’s something about him I can’t place. A flicker of familiarity that makes no sense.

I’m certain I’d remember someone like him. That face. That presence. That devastating kind of handsome you don’t forget—youcan’tforget.

And yet… my body reacts like it already knows him.

He doesn’t walk in alone. Two men follow him, bodyguards, if their stiff posture and the way they scan the room mean anything. The man in front walks into the room like he doesn’t care who’s staring. Like he’s used to being watched. Feared.

A jolt runs through me, sharp and confusing. He gives me a look that feels both heavy and meaningless at the same time. a look I have no way of deciphering.

That I have no interest in deciphering.

I look away first, forcing myself to face forward again.

“Who is that?” Chloe whispers beside me, her voice soft.

I shrug, “I have no idea. Maybe he did business with dad.”

My skin feels heated and a part of me is curious. But I don’t have time for strange men with cold eyes. It doesn’t escape my notice that my uncle sat up straighter with the man’s entrance. When I glance at him he’s tenser but he reassures me with a small smile when he notices the question in my eyes.

The priest calls for a moment of silence and I bow my head and grip my hands together in my lap so tightly my nails dig into my palms.

I still don’t cry. The service moves forward. A blur of hymns and readings and soft, broken sobs from somewhere behind me. I stand when I’m supposed to stand. I sit when I’m supposed to sit. Outside the sunlight is brutal, jarring.

The procession to the cemetery feels slow and disjointed. At the graveside, I stand motionless as they lower the coffin into the earth. The priest says something again but it’s all white noise. I can’t look away. I can’t breathe. The first handful of dirt hits the coffin with a sound that cuts through me, low and final.

My knees wobble. My uncle’s hand tightens around my arm, grounding me, keeping me upright when all I want do is fold into myself and disappear. I don’t cry. Not here. Not yet.

People start coming up, murmuring things I don’t hear. Faces blur. Hands touch my shoulder, squeeze my arm, but none of it feels real. and through it all I can feel him watching me. The man from the church. It’s almost like he’s waiting for something. And it’s making me feel uneasy.

The cemetery slowly empties but he stays. He’s lurking, leaning casually against a tree a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest like he has every right to be here.

My skin crawls. Not from fear. From something else, something more dangerous.

“Uncle,” I murmur. “Do you know who that is?”

He follows my gaze, his jaw tightening when he sees who I’m looking at.

“Someone dangerous,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.

Great. That’s comforting. I straighten, trying to shove down the unease rising inside me. Maybe if I ask the security detail to escort him off the property, he’ll get the hint?

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