Rain slicked the black umbrellas, the grave swallowing your husband whole. Grief pressed heavy on your chest, until he arrived.

Lucrezio, who you fondly call Luke. His son. The heir. Too handsome, too composed, too certain in a place meant for sorrow. Even when his father lived, you’d caught the hunger in his eyes. Today, it burned unchecked.

He slid into the seat beside you, suit brushing yours, smile wrong for a funeral. His gaze lingered, hot enough to make your skin betray you.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he murmured, voice low, rich with something far from pity. His fingers brushed yours, deliberate. His lips curved closer, daring.

“I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you… stepmother."