Her Daughter's Funeral, Their Wedding Night

Elenora Carlson's daughter was dead.

There had been no funeral. No burial. She hadn't been able to afford even the cheapest plot in the pauper's cemetery. All that remained of Poppy-her laughter, her sticky fingers, her ridiculous questions about why the sky was blue-fit inside a single black urn.

On the television mounted in the funeral home's waiting area, a royal wedding played out in obscene, glittering excess. The groom was Elenora's ex-husband. Poppy's biological father. The bride was the woman he'd always loved-his precious white moonlight, the one who got away and finally came back.

He had everything he'd ever wanted.

Elenora walked out of the funeral home clutching the urn to her chest. Outside, the sky had split open. Rain hammered the pavement in sheets so thick she could barely see three feet ahead.

Chloe, the young assistant who'd helped her with the paperwork, hovered in the doorway. Her voice was careful, the way people's voices got when they were talking to someone whose child had just died. "Ma'am, it's really coming down out there. Is someone coming to pick you up?"

Elenora looked down at the urn.

No one was coming. The only family she had left was standing at an altar right now, sliding a ring onto another woman's finger. He didn't have time for this. He didn't know Poppy was dead.

And even if he had, he wouldn't have cared.

Donovan Montgomery IV hated her with a cold, methodical thoroughness that left no room for exceptions. And by extension, he had hated their child.

The accident had happened six days ago. Delphine Vance had been driving her son home when she'd blown through a red light and T-boned the bus carrying Elenora and Poppy. The impact had thrown Poppy against the window. She'd been knocked unconscious before she even had time to scream.

Elenora had spotted Donovan in the crowd of first responders immediately. His height. His bearing. The way people moved out of his path without realizing they were doing it.

She'd launched herself at him, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, her voice shredding in her throat. "Donovan! Poppy's hurt-she's dying-please, you have to help us, she needs a hospital-"

He'd shoved her. Hard. Her skull had cracked against the asphalt, and for a moment the world had gone white and ringing.

"Elenora." His voice had been bored. Disgusted. "This pathetic act is getting old."

Without another glance, he'd scooped up Delphine's son-a boy with minor scratches and a theatrical pout-and rushed toward the ambulance, his face tight with panic.

Still dizzy, blood trickling into her eye, Elenora had grabbed his pant leg. She'd been beyond pride. Beyond dignity. "I'm begging you. Poppy's dying. She's your daughter too-"

Donovan had looked down at her like she was something he'd scraped off his shoe.

"I've told you a hundred times. The only child I will ever acknowledge is the one Delphine gives me." His voice had been calm. Almost kind. That was the worst part. "You and the bastard you spawned are garbage I never wanted. Now bring me the goddamn divorce papers."

He'd kicked her off and climbed into the ambulance without looking back.

Because of that thirty-minute delay-thirty minutes of bleeding on the pavement while her daughter hemorrhaged internally-Poppy had died on the operating table.

And now the boy Donovan had saved was skipping down the aisle at his wedding, serving as ring bearer, showering rose petals on the happy couple.

Elenora laughed. It was a terrible sound, scraped raw.

"I'll get home on my own," she told Chloe. "Thank you."

She stepped into the rain.

Chloe watched her go, wanting to follow. But she'd heard the name Montgomery. She knew better than to get involved in that family's business.

Elenora walked through the downpour, tugging off her thin jacket and wrapping it around the urn. She hunched over it, trying to shield it from the worst of the rain.

"Don't worry, baby," she whispered. "Mommy won't let you get wet."

Headlights cut through the gray, followed by the blare of a horn. A black Maybach pulled up beside her, slowing to match her pace.

She didn't stop. She kept walking.

---

Thirty minutes later, she stood in the living room of the house that had once been her marital home. Now it belonged to Donovan and Delphine. Red and gold decorations festooned every surface. The air smelled like expensive champagne and Delphine's cloying perfume.

Elenora was soaked to the bone. Her hair plastered to her skull. Her shoes leaving puddles on the marble.

The maid wouldn't even let her step past the foyer. She was afraid Elenora would dirty the freshly mopped floors.

Fine. Elenora set the urn down, pulled the crumpled, waterlogged divorce papers from her pocket, and handed them over.

The maid took them. Then she nudged the jacket-covered urn with her foot.

"What's this garbage? Take it outside with you."

The jacket slipped. The urn's engraved nameplate caught the light.

The maid froze.

*Poppy Montgomery Carlson.*

That was her daughter's name.

Elenora pulled the jacket back over the urn, covering it carefully. She turned and walked out without a word.

---

An hour later, she stood at the edge of the ocean.

The waves were gray and churning, whipped into a frenzy by the storm. The beach was empty. No one to stop her. No one to care.

Elenora clutched the urn to her chest and walked into the water.

It was freezing. It stole her breath. But she kept walking.

"Don't be scared, Poppy," she whispered. "Mommy's here. Mommy will always be here."

The water rose to her waist. Her chest. Her shoulders.

She closed her eyes.

And let the sea take her.