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I hang up without saying goodbye. I sit frozen as Thomas opens the door next to me and scampers away to freedom before I can interrogate him. Despite the warm May weather, I shiver.
“Miss Katja… is everything okay?”
Always faithful, Gordon squeezes my hand in a show of support. I don’t dare look him in the eyes. If I do, he’ll see how close I am to melting down.
Instead, I take a deep breath and step out of the car.
Why did I answer that call? When I woke up this morning, I’d dreaded seeing mistresses one through eleven. Now, just a few hours later, I can’t bring myself to even care about them. I’m too busy worrying about what other secrets my philandering husband has been keeping from me.
Chapter Eight
KATJA
The minister drones on in the pulpit. I tune him out because I can’t stand listening to him talking about Tristan as if he was some kind of Goddamn saint. It takes all my energy to keep from jumping up and screaming that he deserves to be dead for all of the humiliation he’s brought on me. The cheating was bad enough, but now, after talking to our lawyer, any small sadness at his passing has been replaced with rage… and fear.
He sold the Paris apartment. My apartment. What the hell else has he sold of mine? And why? He used to love to remind me that he had more money than God. Before we’d married, I’d seen bank statements, investment recaps, and property deeds that had convinced me he wasn’t wrong.
Any sale wasn’t legal. I’d insisted on a pre-nup. I wasn’t stupid. I knew he wanted to get his hands on The Whitney bad enough that he’d signed up to help subsidize its upkeep as part of our marriage arrangement. But there was no way he could have sold anything of mine without my explicit approval.
Just the thought of trying to unravel what my departed husband has been up to makes my head throb. Through the long service, I manage to follow all of the minister’s directions. I stand when the minister says stand.
Sit. Kneel. Pray.
Except the only prayer I can muster is for strength to get through this day without losing it.
Over two-hundred people are crowded into the sanctuary. A few may have come to pay their respects, but I suspect more are here just to watch how I handle saying goodbye to the man who died while cheating on me. I’m not really mad about that. It’s how the New York elite works.
Through sheer will, I refuse to give them the salacious show they’re hoping for.
When the service ends and the minister invites everyone to walk the short distance to the cemetery behind the church for the service near his above-ground crypt, I push to my feet, grateful for Gordon’s steadying arm.
At first, I keep my eyes focused on the long aisle’s red carpet. I don’t want to look into the crowd, but like the same morbid curiosity that makes people stop to gape when passing an accident on the side of the highway, I can’t resist glancing around the pews, taking note of who’s here. Normally, I’d be making mental notes to record in my notebook when I get home, but nothing about today is normal.
Directly behind me sits Tristan’s father, consoling a sobbing number eleven. They deserve each other.
A few pews back, numbers four, seven, and nine stand out as they’re actually sitting together.
Ballsy move, ladies.
How ironic that I don’t know at least half of the people in attendance. The realization only makes my fear of what I may find the next day when I visit our lawyer’s office even worse. There is so much about Tristan I clearly don’t know.
As we finally approach the back of the church, following a few feet behind the casket being carried by the pallbearers, I get my first glimpse of him. Correction—them.
How dare they show their faces here.
Dex is sitting in the final row of the church, off to the side and out of the way, as if anyone can possibly miss him. In a room full of society’s elite, he stands out. Sure, The Innkeeper has on the right clothes, but he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Maybe it’s Z, his cleaner, sitting next to him that gives him away. Z may be wearing an expensive suit, too, but the tattoos snaking out from the suit’s cuffs onto his hands and crawling up his neck above the collar are impossible to hide.
I’m thankful when we leave the sanctuary. Despite the glaring mid-day sun, the ten-minute walk through the church’s gardens feels like the dirge that it is, giving me time to push down my fear and anger in hopes of making it through this final act.
But as the service proceeds, the crowd presses in closer, the minister pontificates, and I start to feel lightheaded. The combination of the heat, too little sleep, no food, and growing stress take their toll until I feel myself starting to sway just as the minister begins his final prayer.
Gordon catches me, keeping me from face planting onto the ground in front of the mausoleum’s wall of stacked tombs. But he’s frail himself and I can feel him losing his grip. My legs buckle under me just as I see white stars in the edges of my vision.
Sure I’m about to make a spectacular scene, I brace myself for the pain of hitting the ground, only the pain never comes. A strong arm wraps around my waist while another holds my elbow opposite Gordon and, together, the two men keep me upright.
I don’t need my vision to know it’s Dex. His scent gives him away.
He leans in and whispers against my ear. “Don’t you dare faint. He doesn’t deserve that kind of grief.”
