“You Want Every Penny He Left Behind?” — After Her Husband Died in His Mistress’s Bed, His Parents Called Her “Too Ugly” and Demanded His Empire… So She Agreed to Give Them Everything—Until the FBI Walked Through the Door

Saturday arrived under a blanket of heavy, weeping gray clouds.

Grant’s funeral was held at St. Jude’s Cathedral, the most expensive and prestigious church in the city. Celia had taken complete control of the ceremony, transforming a tragic death into an elaborate social production.

The altar was suffocated by thousands of white orchids. Giant portrait photographs of Grant were displayed along the aisle—Grant laughing on a private yacht, Grant playing golf at an exclusive resort, Grant posing at charity galas.

Not a single photograph showed him working. Not a single photograph showed him with me.

I sat alone in the front row, dressed in a tailored black suit. I looked like a quiet, somber widow. Inside my jacket pocket rested Grant's phone, which Naomi’s tech team had managed to mirror before the police logged it into evidence.

The eulogies were an exercise in deep absurdities.

"Grant Holloway was a visionary," his former fraternity brother announced from the pulpit. "A man who gave selflessly to his friends, a leader who built industries from nothing, and a loyal son who always put his family first."

I looked down at my lap to hide the sudden tightness in my throat.

Family first.

I knew for a fact that three days before he died, Grant had emptied his mother’s secondary savings account—a secret detail Celia hadn't even discovered yet—to pay off an aggressive loan shark named Oliver Crane.

Celia sat three seats down from me, weeping dramatically into a lace handkerchief. Every time a prominent city politician or wealthy socialite walked past, she made sure to whisper, "He worked himself to death... he carried the weight of everything on his shoulders."

When the service ended, the crowd moved out toward the marble steps. Celia caught up to me near the limousine, her eyes red-rimmed but sharp with greed.

"Monday morning," she whispered brutally, stepping into my personal space. "Ten o'clock. Our lawyer’s office. You bring every title, every deed, and every stock certificate tied to Grant’s name."

"I will be there, Celia," I replied calmly.

"Don't play games, Elise," Bernard grunted, glaring at me over his wife's shoulder. "We have hired Victor Baines. He's the top asset-recovery attorney in the state. If you try to hide a single dollar that Grant earned, we will ruin you."