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The Fortress at the Graveside
This was not a reception.
Vanessa stood near the center of it all, swirling a glass of Pinot Noir like she was hosting a gallery opening. Her black dress hugged her body shamelessly, the fabric catching the light every time she moved. Darren hovered beside her, comfortable, confident, acting as though he belonged there.
As if this house had not watched him betray me.
As if my father had not once looked Darren in the eye and said, “If you ever hurt my daughter, you’ll answer for it.”
I stayed near the wall, posture perfect, eyes scanning, saying little. People approached me with stiff condolences, awkward pats on the arm, murmured admiration for my “service.” Their eyes slid past me quickly, uncomfortable with someone who didn’t crumble on command.
