My Husband Used My Funeral for His IPO

The dining room was filled with men and women in dark suits. These were the lead underwriters from the investment banks. Cole needed them to take Hoffman Group public.

Phoebe put me at the very far end of the long table, right next to the swinging door to the kitchen. I sat beside the catering staff. I wore a plain black dress that smelled like mothballs. My hair was tied back in a low knot.

"Everyone, meet Ariana," Phoebe said, smiling warmly down the table. "She's our household coordinator. She keeps everything running so smoothly behind the scenes."

One woman paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips. Her name was Clara Vance. Four years ago, I had sat across from Clara in a boardroom for three days straight, negotiating the initial biotech patents.

Clara frowned. "Ariana? Ariana Lane?" She leaned forward, squinting across the crystal glasses. "Is that you? Good God, what happened to you?"

Phoebe didn't blink. She reached out and patted Clara’s hand with practiced warmth. "Ariana had a severe medical incident while traveling. Her vocal cords were damaged, poor thing. We try not to stress her with work talk. More wine, Clara?"

Phoebe signaled a waiter. Clara looked at me with confusion and pity, but the waiter poured the wine, and the conversation moved to share prices.

I kept my hands folded in my lap. I didn't say a word.

Later that night, the guests left. I stood at the sink, rinsing crystal glasses in hot water.

Heavy footsteps stopped behind me. Cole grabbed my upper arm and spun me around. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"Don't get any ideas," he said. His voice was a harsh whisper. "You sat there staring at Clara like you wanted to beg."

I looked at his fingers on my skin. "I was just doing my job."

"You don't have a job here," he snapped. "You are an embarrassment. If you try to make a scene in front of the underwriters, I will ruin you. The patents are still in probate review. I can tie you up in court for the next ten years. I can freeze your bank accounts, challenge your legal status, and have you committed to an institution. Do you understand me?"

The water ran hot over the edge of the sink.

"Understood," I whispered.

He shoved my arm away in disgust, dried his hands on a clean towel, and walked out.

***

Two nights later, Cole took us to The Beverly Wilshire.

It was the annual charity gala, the biggest pre-IPO event of the season. Flashbulbs went off along the red carpet. Photographers shouted Cole's name.

Phoebe had picked my clothes. It was a drab, mouse-gray dress that hung loose on my frame. It had a high, stiff collar that rubbed against the surgical scar on my throat. Cole walked with Phoebe on his arm. She glowed in gold silk, her hand resting on her belly.

I was brought along for one reason: Cole’s PR team wanted the world to see his compassion. Look at the noble billionaire, taking care of his damaged, silent wife.

"Stand near the back column," Phoebe told me before we entered the ballroom. "Stay out of the photos. When Cole taps his glass twice, bring him a fresh scotch."

I stood by the marble pillar near the shadows. Men in tuxedos and women in diamonds walked past, looking right through me.

Across the room, Cole gave the signal. Two taps of his ring against his glass.

I walked to the bar, took a glass of scotch from the bartender, and carried it back through the crowd. The music was loud. People were laughing over the string quartet.

I took three steps toward Cole's table, and then I stopped.

My feet felt locked to the floor.

Ten feet away, Barrett Munoz stood beside a state senator. Barrett was Cole's Chief of Staff. He had worked for Cole for ten years. He threw his head back and laughed at a joke, raising his right hand to gesture with his drink.

The chandelier light hit his fingers.

On his right hand sat a heavy gold signet ring. The face was carved with an engraved crest—a coiled serpent beneath a blind eye.

The air vanished from my lungs.

A dark basement. Three years ago.

The smell of mold and wet concrete.

A man had pinned my shoulders to the dirty mattress. His hand had pressed hard against my collarbone, bruising the bone. That exact ring had cut into my skin while another man pulled a rough cord tight around my neck until my cartilage snapped.

I remembered staring at that gold snake while I choked. I remembered the way it caught the light of a single hanging bulb before the world went black.

It was Barrett's ring.

The kidnapping was never a random street crime.

It was an inside job.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. My face didn't move. My hands didn't shake.

A waiter passed by with an empty silver tray. Without looking at him, I placed Cole's scotch on the tray.

I turned around. I walked back to my spot against the back pillar.

I smoothed the stiff fabric of my gray dress and folded my hands over my waist. I did not blink. I did not look at Cole, and I did not look at Barrett.

From the outside, I was just a broken ghost in the corner.

Inside, the last trace of the woman who once loved Cole Hoffman burned away to ash.