Chapter 2: The Widow’s Secret

The day my older brother’s casket came home to Maple Heights, Natalie spent forever getting ready. She sat at her old vanity, sunlight slanting through sheer curtains, dust motes dancing in the air. Every movement—mascara, smoothing her hair—was slow and deliberate, like she was armoring herself.

She caught me watching and smiled at me in the mirror. The corners of her lips curled, gentle and knowing, her eyes never leaving mine—a look that always made me feel like I was standing on the edge of a secret.

She was already a legend for her beauty, but now, wrapped in black, she looked untouchable—like a ghost that might vanish if you blinked. The dress hugged her narrow waist, her neck long and pale, stealing your breath with a single glance.

A cold dread pressed on my chest. Without thinking, I reached for her sleeve. My hand trembled as I touched the cool silk, desperate to hold her back—just for a moment.

But I was too slow. She slipped away, heels echoing on the hardwood, dress trailing like a shadow behind her. I stood frozen in the entryway, watching her disappear into a sea of mourners.

Inside, the casket—fresh from the front lines—was slick with rain, puddles gathering on the linoleum. The air was thick with the scent of wet grass and cut flowers, the flag draped over the casket muted by the storm.

Natalie knelt on a cushion, absently tossing flower petals into a small fireproof urn. Her fingers lingered on each petal before letting it drop. The smell of burning lilies and roses tangled with wax and rain.

The flames lit up the President’s face—cold, suspicious, and hungry. His eyes glinted in the firelight, all sharp edges and calculation, as if he was both grieving and plotting at once.

He’d come to pay respects, but it was just a show. He tapped his fingers on the pew, jaw clenched every time a mourner sobbed. Even his Secret Service detail looked uncomfortable, one agent’s eyes darting anywhere but toward Natalie and the President.

But when he saw her, all that impatience vanished—replaced by a greedy kind of delight. His lips curled in a predatory grin, posture straightening like he’d found the only thing in the room that mattered.

"You know, some women just look better in black." His gaze was locked on her, ignoring the agents and local officials. He kicked the urn aside and lunged at Natalie like a man possessed.

The urn clattered, petals and flames scattering. For a moment, time froze. Every mourner held their breath.

"Mr. President..." Natalie’s voice trembled, soft and smoky, a seductive edge that only made the President more frenzied. She glanced again at the casket, then back at him, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pain and calculation.

The President was infamous for his appetites, but forcing himself on a widow before her husband’s casket was a new kind of low. The staff caught on quick, hustling everyone out of the parlor.

A heavyset funeral director in a wrinkled suit shuffled mourners out with whispered apologies, eyes darting to the closed door.

Through the thin doors, Natalie’s cries—"Mr. President"—echoed again and again. I pressed my fists to my ears. My whole body shook, but I couldn’t stop listening. Shame burned hot in my cheeks.

My nails dug into my palms, the pain sharp and grounding. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. It felt like my chest would cave in from the weight of loss, shame, and helplessness.

I stood outside that door for what felt like hours, the agony numbing as rain poured down the windows. Thunder rumbled overhead, and the world blurred beyond streaks of water.

It lasted nearly all night. Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight. The candles outside guttered in the wind, streetlamps casting sickly halos across the lot. I lost track of time, my body rooted to the spot.

Then the main room door opened. Warm, heavy air—thick with sweat and perfume—spilled into the hall. I stared, frozen, as the President stepped out, carrying Natalie in his arms, casting a satisfied glance at his head aide. She looked dazed, mascara smudged, her shoes dangling from one hand, strap broken.

"The President is leaving," the aide announced, waving his clipboard. He leaned in close enough for me to smell his sharp cologne. "People move up in the world. For the young widow to catch the President’s eye is a blessing for your family. Whether you keep living in comfort depends entirely on her, so don’t get any foolish ideas."

His smile was the kind you see at fundraisers—polite, practiced, and threatening.

I stared at the floor, wishing I could disappear. The boards creaked under my shoes, my heart pounding so loud I worried they could hear it. My brother was gone. His medals still gathered dust at home, no one left to fill his boots. I was just a kid—not even of age. What else could I do but accept my fate?

I glanced at my own reflection in the rain-spattered glass, wondering who I was now that everything had changed.

The government people left. Their motorcade’s headlights flashed past, tires hissing on wet streets. For a moment, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Before I could move, the maids and housekeepers burst into sobs. Their cries echoed off the high ceilings, raw and unrestrained. Someone knocked over a vase of lilies, petals scattering everywhere.

The old caretaker, who’d watched my brother grow up, wept so hard his sobs rattled the stained-glass windows, making the lilies on the altar tremble. Suddenly he coughed up blood, dropping to his knees and howling at the sky.

"Young master, open your eyes and look! This is the woman you married despite your reputation. Now, before your body’s even cold, she can’t wait to climb into another man’s bed!"

He pounded his fists on the carpet, spit flying, his grief tipping into fury.

"She’s got no business calling herself family after this. Not after what she’s done!"

A housekeeper nodded, dabbing her eyes with a dish towel, voice shaking with scorn. A cousin chimed in, shrill: "That’s right!"

The accusations rolled on, a chorus of anger and disappointment filling every corner of the old house. It was true—Natalie had once been a call girl. That rumor clung to her like a shadow, whispered in diners and beauty salons. Even people who’d never met her spoke of her past at The Velvet Room, a neon-lit club on the edge of town where half the county’s secrets got traded over whiskey and cheap perfume.

Back then, her family fell apart—her parents dead, her uncles selling off the estate and leaving her with nothing but a suitcase and her mother’s wedding ring. She was seventeen when she was sold to The Velvet Room. The madam saw a prize and sold her first night for $50,000. It was the talk of every diner and barbershop for weeks—folks at the bakery whispering, eyes wide, like they’d seen a ghost.

Natalie refused to yield. The madam beat her feet bloody, tied her up to send to a client. But Natalie broke free, jumped from a third-story window, and landed hard in the alley behind the club—ankle twisted, blood soaking her dress. She lay in the gravel, refusing to cry out, teeth clenched against the pain.