Chapter 2 - The Demand
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Marcus stopped struggling against our cousins’ grip for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving as he glared at me. A cruel, mocking sneer twisted his handsome features.
"Listen to her," Marcus laughed, a harsh, grating sound that felt entirely wrong inside a church. "Just listen to her. She actually thinks she’s the executor."
"I am," I replied, holding his gaze without flinching.
That single, two-word sentence silenced him for three long seconds. The arrogant smirk completely evaporated from his face, replaced by a sudden flash of profound confusion and rising panic. He looked around the church, desperately seeking validation from the sea of shocked faces.
Then, our uncle Raymond stepped out from the second row, his face flushed with indignation. Raymond had always favored Marcus, admiring his reckless bravado and excusing his endless string of failures.
"That is impossible, Elena," Uncle Raymond said, stepping forward to position himself physically between me and my brother. "Your father would never choose you over his only son. Marcus is the rightful head of this family now. You are speaking out of turn."
I lowered the blood-stained handkerchief from my mouth and looked past Raymond, fixing my eyes on the polished mahogany casket resting near the altar.
"He didn’t choose me over Marcus," I said softly, ensuring my voice carried clearly across the silent sanctuary. "He chose someone he trusted."
The priest, looking deeply uncomfortable, awkwardly cleared his throat and hurried through the final blessing, desperately trying to restore some semblance of dignity to the ruined funeral service. But the damage was already done. The sacred farewell to Daniel Ward had been permanently stained by violence and greed.
As the pallbearers—who were suddenly avoiding making eye contact with me—moved forward to carry the casket out to the waiting hearse, Aunt Celia rushed to my side. She handed me a tissue, her hands trembling violently.
"Elena, are you alright?" she whispered, her eyes darting nervously toward Marcus, who was now straightening his suit jacket and whispering furiously to his wife, Vanessa. "Should we call the police? He hit you so hard."
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"No police," I said calmly, pressing the fresh tissue to my lip. "Not yet. We are all going back to the house for the reception. Everything will be settled there."
I turned and walked down the long center aisle, feeling the heavy, judgmental stares of my relatives burning into my back. They thought I was a usurper. They thought I was a bitter, jealous sister trying to steal a fortune. But they were about to learn exactly how wrong they were.
