The Billionaire widowers Last Wife

"He killed her."

That whisper cut through the chapel. sharp, thin, and once it was out there, it couldn't be unsaid. No one turned. Not all the way, anyway. Grief demanded you keep yourself together, and keeping yourself together meant pretending you didn't hear things that made the room feel colder.

"They all die," someone muttered. "Every single one of them."

A man next to the speaker hissed, "Angela, keep your voice down."

"Why?" The first voice didn't drop. "Everyone's thinking the same thing."

Eloise Laurent heard every word, though. Her hand tightened on her handbag until the leather squeaked, but she let go before anyone noticed. She kept her face forward, her expression calm, like she belonged there in all that black silk and polite mourning.

She didn't.

She wasn't family. Not a friend. No invitation. She was just curiosity dressed up for a funeral.

Up front stood Cassian Blackmoor. The man rumor had turned into something part flesh, part ghost story. He stood beside the coffin of his latest dead wife.

Closed lid. White roses. Silver handles so shiny they caught the candlelight and shook it like nerves. The whole setup looked intentional, elegant, and expensive.

So did he.

His suit fit perfectly, like it'd been sewn just for him. Broad shoulders, straight back, hands at his sides, still in a way most people never are unless they've practiced. Black hair slicked back, jaw set. not in anger, not in grief, just steady. Controlled.

He didn't look strong.

He looked worn out in a way sleep couldn't fix.

The priest talked quietly about peace and mercy, about how death wasn't really the end. The words drifted around, light as smoke. Nobody clung to them.

Eloise didn't listen. She watched Cassian.

She didn't mean to. She couldn't help it. Something about the way he stood pulled her attention. Not wrong, not guilty. something stranger. Like gravity bent toward him, like the air itself played by different rules around him.

Another mourner leaned in close: "I heard the last one fell down the stairs."

His companion whispered back, "This one, they said it was fever."

Eloise didn't turn. The voices didn't matter. The words did.

Every single one.

Her eyes went back to Cassian. Seventeen marriages, people whispered. Seventeen funerals. All different stories. Accidents, sickness, bad luck, fate. Patterns hide themselves well.

The priest's voice softened. "Please stand."

Chairs scraped. Fabric rustled. Somewhere behind her, a woman sobbed, too raw for a room this careful. Someone hushed her. Someone sighed.

Eloise stood with the rest.

Cassian didn't move.

Not when the prayer ended. Not when the first mourner stepped forward. Not when the condolences started up, soft and practiced.

A gray-haired man squeezed his shoulder. Nothing.

A woman dabbed at her eyes and tried to say something kind. Cassian didn't nod.

A younger man gripped his arm. Cassian didn't blink.

It wasn't indifference. It was something else, like he'd locked away something dangerous and thrown out the key on purpose.