Using my heavily cracked phone, which had miraculously survived the fall in my thick down coat, I dialed the one number I knew would change everything. My father. Within forty-five minutes, a private, elite mountain rescue team deployed by my father extracted me from the ledge under the cover of the raging storm.
I was rushed to a private, highly secure medical facility owned by our family. My ribs were cracked, and I was severely hypothermic, but the doctors worked a miracle. That very night, under the tightest security, my beautiful, healthy daughter was delivered via emergency C-section.
While I held my baby girl in that warm hospital room, my father sat by my bedside, his face a mask of absolute, quiet fury. “What do you want to do, Elena?” he asked, his voice dripping with ice.
“He thinks I’m dead,” I whispered, looking at the bruises on my body. “Let him throw the funeral. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes who he actually married.”
Two days later, Victor held what he called a “memorial cathedral service.” Because my body hadn’t officially been recovered, he claimed it was a service to honor my memory, but it was really a celebration. He invited our mutual friends, acquaintances, and business associates, playing the part of the grieving, heartbroken widower to perfection—or so he thought.
In reality, he stood right beside the altar, holding Serena’s hand under the fabric of his black suit.
Multiple guests later told me he was quietly smirking, whispering to his mistress about how they were finally free and unfathomably rich. He was entirely convinced he had committed the perfect, untraceable crime.
He was standing at the pulpit, clearing his throat to deliver a fake, tearful eulogy, when the massive, heavy oak doors of the cathedral didn’t just open—they violently exploded inward, slamming against the stone walls. The echoing boom shattered the quiet sanctity of the church.
Every single head in the congregation whipped around in absolute shock.
The heavy, rhythmic click of heels echoed through the silent cathedral. I walked slowly, gracefully down the center aisle.
I was pale, but my posture was completely unbroken, radiating a terrifying confidence. And locked tightly to my arm was my father—the billionaire CEO whose face was recognizable on every major financial magazine in the country. Behind us walked a team of state investigators and federal agents.
Victor’s face instantly drained of all color. His jaw dropped so far it looked deformed, his eyes bulging as if he were looking at a literal ghost.
Serena let out a sharp, strangled gasp and stumbled backward, tripping over the altar steps.
“Going somewhere, Victor?” I called out, my voice cutting through the dead silence of the church like a razor blade.
