My Husband Used My Funeral for His IPO

The steam from the paper cup warmed my raw palms.

I sat behind Mrs. Rogers’ cart in the alley off Skid Row, blowing on the hot broth. My ribs ached with every breath. Three years of hell had left my body hollow, my skin marked with burns and jagged lines. When I tried to swallow, the scar on my throat pulled tight. My voice was gone, crushed down to a dry, broken whisper.

Tires screeched on the wet asphalt.

A sleek black SUV blocked the narrow alleyway. The rear door opened, and Cole stepped out.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit and polished shoes that never touched dirty streets. He didn’t step closer. He just looked at me like I was roadkill. His jaw tightened in pure disgust.

"Three years," Cole said. His voice was flat. Cold. "And this is where you crawl to?"

I opened my mouth, but only a sharp hiss came out.

Cole reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a clip of cash, peeled off three hundred-dollar bills, and let them fall into the grease puddle at my feet.

"Is this your going rate now?" he sneered. "Get her in the car."

Two guards grabbed my arms and hauled me into the SUV. I didn’t fight. I kept my chin down and stared at the floor mats.

***

We drove to the Malibu estate.

The house still sat high above the ocean, but everything inside was wrong. The warm woods and soft tones I once loved were gone. Phoebe had turned the place into a palace of cold cream and gold. On the marble vanity by the stairs, I saw my grandmother’s diamond studs sitting next to a half-empty bottle of cheap perfume.

Footsteps echoed from the landing above.

Phoebe walked down the curved staircase. She wore a loose cashmere dress, one hand resting gently over a rounded belly. Cole walked right behind her, his hand steady against the small of her back.

She stopped three steps up and gave me a soft, pitying smile. "Cole... is this really Ariana? Oh, you poor thing."

Cole didn’t look at her belly, and he didn’t look at me. He checked his watch. "The biotech patents are still in her name. We can't file the IPO paperwork without her signature."

He finally glanced in my direction. "You work as Phoebe’s assistant until the deal closes. Don't speak to anyone. Don't leave the grounds." He gestured toward the service wing. "Put her in the back room by the pantry."

The room was tiny. It held a narrow cot, a single lamp, and a window facing a concrete wall. I sat on the thin mattress and pressed my hands flat against my knees. I didn't cry. Tears don't fix anything.

***

The next morning, the estate filled with voices.

Investors in dark suits sat around the long dining table on the terrace. Phoebe played the gracious hostess, but as soon as the men asked for fresh coffee, she waved me over.

"Ariana, darling," she said, her voice loud and sweet for the guests. "Could you bring out the files for the board? And pour Mr. Vance some more coffee, please?"

I carried the silver tray. My knuckles were pale, scarred from old ropes. Every man at the table looked away when I poured their cups. They didn't want to see what had happened to Cole Hoffman’s wife.

After the guests moved to the study, Phoebe cornered me in the butler's pantry. The sweet smile vanished from her face.

"Look at you," she whispered, stepping so close I could smell her vanilla lotion. "You’re a freak, Ariana. Cole can’t even stand to breathe the same air as you."

She leaned in, her eyes hard and bright. "Nobody is coming to save you this time. Sign the papers when he tells you to. Be a good little ghost, and maybe we won't throw you back onto the street."

I folded my hands over my apron. I looked straight into her eyes and said nothing.

Her jaw twitched. When she didn't get a reaction, she scoffed and turned on her heel.

***

That evening, Cole hosted a private dinner before the final investor roadshow.

I stood in the upstairs hallway with a stack of presentation binders. Cole walked out of his bedroom, adjusting his silver cufflinks. He stopped in front of me and froze.

His eyes locked onto the thick, jagged surgical line across my neck. His lip curled.

"Button your collar," he ordered quietly. "Cover that mess up before you embarrass me down there."

He didn’t wait for an answer. He brushed past me, his shoulder hitting mine, and headed down the stairs.

I didn't shake. I raised my hand, pulled the stiff fabric tight against my throat, and fastened the top button.

Late that night, I sat alone on the narrow cot in the dark. The house was finally quiet. The ocean crashed against the cliffs far below.

I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.

*Stay quiet, Ariana,* my mother Hazel had whispered to me years ago, pressing a small ledger into my hands before she died. *Men like Cole only look at what they can control. When they think you have nothing left, that's when you strike.*

I opened my eyes. The darkness didn't scare me anymore. I had survived three years in a cage.

I could survive Cole Hoffman just a little longer.