Rising From The Grave As A Queen

Ivy Richardson POV

Clayton blinked rapidly, the initial shock on his face curdling into something uglier: defensiveness.

It was the default setting for men like him-weak men who crowned themselves kings simply because they were born into a lineage of thieves.

"This is sick," he spat, his hands curling into impotent fists at his sides.

"You let us mourn you. You let your father cry over an empty box. Do you have any idea what you put us through?"

A laugh, dark and sharp as broken glass, bubbled up in my throat.

"I put you through?"

I took a step forward, deliberately invading his personal space.

Instantly, the memory assaulted me: the cloying stench of gasoline mixed with the metallic tang of copper.

I remembered the sound of my phone ringing in the wreckage. I remembered answering it, begging for help, and hearing his voice on the other end.

Die quietly, Ivy. I have a wedding to get to.

That was what he had said before he hung up. He had chosen Ainsley's engagement party over my life.

"I didn't fake anything, Clayton." My voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You told me to go to hell. I just took the scenic route back."

He flinched.

For a split second, guilt flickered in his eyes, but he quickly buried it under layers of practiced narcissism.

"It was a chaotic night," he stammered, his composure cracking. "I was under pressure. The merger with your father... Ainsley needed me."

He straightened, trying to regain ground. "You were always so dramatic, Ivy. You probably exaggerated the crash to get attention."

Gaslighting. It was his mother tongue.

Five years ago, that sentence would have brought me to my knees with apologies. It would have made me question my own sanity.

Now? It just bored me.

I looked at him-really looked at him-and realized I felt absolutely nothing.

No hate. No love. Just the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a particularly dull insect writhing under a microscope.

"You're wearing the same watch," I noted, my gaze drifting pointedly to his wrist. "The gold plating is peeling."

Clayton covered his wrist instinctively, like a child caught with a stolen toy.

"I'm calling your father," he threatened, reaching for his pocket with trembling fingers. "There's a sit-down tonight. A family gathering. You're coming with me. You owe us an explanation."

He reached out to grab my arm.

It was a mistake.

Before his fingers could even graze the fabric of my coat, I side-stepped with a fluidity that would have made my husband proud.

"Don't touch me."

My tone wasn't loud, but it carried the crushing weight of the Richardson name. It was a command, not a request.

Clayton froze. He saw something in my eyes that hadn't been there before.

Steel.

"I don't owe you a damn thing, Clayton."

I kicked the plastic lilies with the toe of my boot, sending them skittering across the grass.

"And those flowers suit you. Fake, cheap, and lifeless."

I turned my back on him and walked away, leaving him standing in the dirt with the ghost he thought he could control.