ASHLEY’S POV
The next day, as soon as six in the morning, I am awake.
I glance at the black outfit hanging on the mannequin in front of my closet, and the realization hits me like a slow punch—I am a widow at twenty-one.
A widow.
The word feels foreign, like trying on a coat three sizes too big.
I am too young to be called a widow.
A widow who never got to see her supposed husband.
A widow who never even got to speak to him.
I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the dress.
My hands feel cold.
My mind feels numb.
I don’t know how I am supposed to feel.
One thing I know—I don’t feel the way someone who has lost her husband should feel.
Sad?..no… I’ve never met Warrick.
I’ve never heard his voice.
I’ve never felt his touch—so I can’t fake sadness just to make it convincing, even if I want to.
Relieved?…yes… I can’t lie.
Knowing the renowned Warrick won’t be touching me again makes me feel… relieved.
And that also makes me feel like a monster.
Nothing comes after that.
Just emptiness,an empty hollow where grief is supposed to live.
I stand slowly and walk toward the dress.
Nonna brought it in yesterday.
It’s beautiful, in a devastating sort of way.
Floor-length black silk that catches the early morning light and shimmers like oil on water.
Long sleeves,a high neck,modest, elegant, and unmistakably expensive.
I reach out and touch the fabric…..Cool and smooth.
It slides between my fingers softly, like it’s meant to be worn by someone who understands loss.
But I don’t.
Not really.
This is who I am now.
Mrs.
Harrington.
The president’s widow—Warrick’s widow.
A sharp knock rings out.I drop the cloth and hurry to the door.
“Can I come in?”
”Of course,” I say, stepping back to give him space.
The moment he enters, I shut the door behind him—not hard, just a soft click.
“The Harrington family is downstairs,” he says calmly.
“They arrived for the funeral today.”
There is a drop in his tone that I don’t miss.
His eyes dart around the room, then he exhales.
“You need to hurry down, Ash.
She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
”You should come down and greet her as soon as possible.”
I nod watching him leave,then the door clicks shut behind him.
I rush to the bathroom,wash quickly and slip into the funeral dress.
When I finish, I walk to the mirror and take one last look at myself.
I’ve never been to any funeral proceedings.
My first time is today—standing in as the widow of a man I’ve never truly known.
I pick shoes carefully, reaching for the shoe rack.
Flat or heels… which is appropriate for a widow?
I am not sure.
In the end, I settle for flats and head downstairs.
The SOC bikers should have been carrying Warrick’s body to the cemetery by now.
A few minutes later, I walk down the stairs and see three ladies sitting on the couch.
All three are dressed in black.
Two of them are young, and the third looks older—middle-aged, maybe.
I doubt she’s Warrick’s mother, She could pass for his sister.
The two younger women sit close together, their heads dipping toward each other in quiet conversation.
Both have dark hair, sharp features, and tailored black clothes that look custom-made—not bought off a rack.
Everything about them looks expensive without trying.
But it’s the older woman who holds my attention.
She sits slightly apart from them, back straight, ankles crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap.
She looks nowhere near old enough to have a son Warrick’s age.
Her skin is deep brown and flawless—not the kind you get from good lighting, but the kind that comes from exceptional genes and a lifetime of being cared for.
High cheekbones sit beneath dark eyes that sweep the room as if they can see everything, even while they don’t blink too much.
Her hair is pulled back into a low, severe chignon—nothing out of place.
It’s pinned with what looks like a diamond pin, catching the light when she turns her head.
Her black dress is simple in the way only very expensive things are simple.
No embellishment.
No excess.
At her neck, three strands of pearls.
On her right hand, a single ring with a large dark stone set in gold.
She looks up the moment my foot hits the bottom stair.
Her eyes find mine immediately,sharp and assessing.
“What the hell are you looking at?” she snaps.
“Get the drink I asked for!”
I shudder.
Nonna walks out of the kitchen carrying the drink.
She places it carefully on the table.
“What kind of slow bitches did my son hire here?” She snarls, jerking her chin toward me.
“You should fire that one!”
Nonna’s eyes narrow and she straightens immediately.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” She apologizes, then retreats back to the kitchen.
I stand there for a few seconds, trying to figure out how to introduce myself.
She is Warrick’s mother.
But before I can figure anything out, Adams steps in from the other room.
The moment she sees him, the older woman turns.
“Adams!” she calls, and when he pauses, she says, “Fire that one.
She’s lousy and doesn’t know her job!”
Adams glances toward me and then back to her.
“I’m sorry, Quinn.
We can’t fire her.”
”Why?” Her brow lifts.
“This is my son’s house.
He’s dead.
I’m in charge now, so—”
”She’s Mr.
Warrick’s wife,” Adams cuts in sharply.
Quinn freezes.
The two younger women turn toward us almost in sync.
Gasps ripple through the sitting room,hard, sudden and suffocating.
Slowly, I watch the glass drop from Quinn’s hand.
It hits the floor and shatters with a loud, vibrating crack that swallows the room’s silence.
The next second, the door from the other room slams open.
“What wife are they talking about?” a masculine voice slices through the air.
When I turn, my face goes pale instantly.
Anger surges through me at the sight of Brandon.