At my father’s funeral, he whispered, “I changed the locks on your $30 million condo. If you don’t like it, we’ll divorce.” I laughed — because he had no idea what that condo really was.

I didn’t answer him immediately. My hands were trembling, so I folded them in front of me as if in prayer. I looked toward the front pew where my father’s attorney, Renee Calder, sat with a calm seriousness only people who know secrets carry. She had a discreet file on her lap. She didn’t look at me, but I felt the weight of something waiting.

Mason misread my silence as defeat.

He squeezed my waist a little tighter — the way someone holds a door they think they’ve locked.

“We’ll stop by after the service,”
he whispered.
“I’ll explain what’s fair.”

That was the moment my grief shifted into something strangely light.

That was when I laughed.

Not hysterically, not wildly — just a sharp, small burst of disbelief that slipped out before I could swallow it. Heads turned. People stared. A grieving daughter laughing beside a coffin is unsettling. Mason stiffened beside me, his public mask cracking just enough for panic to flicker behind his eyes.

He hissed:

“What’s funny, Jordan?”

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