Chapter 13
“You don’t have to do this, stellina,” I murmur as our black Mercedes approaches St. Mary’s Cemetery, but Emma’s jaw is set with that same stubborn determination that first caught my attention on our wedding night.
Tony, my driver, navigates through the cemetery gates smoothly, taking the long route while I scan for threats.
Three cars followed us from the mansion: two expected security, one silver sedan that makes my hand drift toward the Glock tucked against my ribs.
The morning sun cuts harsh angles through the trees, making everything look stripped and exposed.
Perfect weather for secrets to slip through cracks.
Emma sits beside me in designer black, a veil obscuring her face but not hiding the tremor in her hands. The silk whispers wealth with every movement. But underneath that expensive armor, Emma is breaking. The real woman I married, not the performance.
"Mariam was my friend," she says, voice steady despite the tears I know are threatening. "We used to sneak apples together out of the kitchen while Mrs. Panbury wasn't looking."
I study her profile through the black mesh of her veil, this woman who insists on walking into danger to honor a dead friend.
Most wives in my world wouldn't even know their servants' names, let alone risk exposure to attend their funerals.
The way she grips her purse, knuckles white with suppressed grief, makes something dark coil in my chest. When she's vulnerable like this, trembling with barely contained emotion, my cock stirs despite the setting.
I'm sick enough to get hard from her need for my protection.
"The Hewsons will be here," I remind her, though she already knows. "They'll test you."
"Let them." There's steel in her voice now, the same steel I've been slowly uncovering beneath her performed submission. "I need to say goodbye."
The cemetery spreads before us, headstones like broken teeth against manicured grass.
A dry June wind carries the smell of fresh-turned earth and dying flowers.
Near the back, where the plots are smaller and stones simpler, a gathering of black-clad figures surrounds a wooden casket.
Nothing elaborate, just pine boards and brass handles that will tarnish within months.
I scan the assembled mourners as Tony parks, my mind already calculating escape routes and potential weapons.
That headstone could crack a skull. The funeral stand holding flowers: metal, sharp edges.
Servants from various households fill the space, their postures speaking of long hours and tired bones.
Several I recognize from the wedding preparation, their faces cycling through confusion as they spot what appears to be the Hewson daughter emerging from my Mercedes.
"Remember," I say, taking Emma's arm as we exit, "you barely knew her. A kind servant who brought you tea. Nothing more. And you can't let any of the other servants see your face. Keep your veil down."
She nods, but I feel the tension thrumming through her body where it presses against mine.
Each of these servants knows Emma, not Frances.
Any one of them could destroy her with a single misplaced greeting.
My fingers tighten possessively on her arm.
The thought of anyone exposing her makes violence pool in my gut, dark and eager.
We approach the grave slowly, my hand on her lower back. Let everyone see that Frances Rosetti is under my protection.
"Mr. and Mrs. Rosetti," one of the servants, an older woman with work-worn hands, starts to say something, then stops, confusion clouding her features as she recognizes something familiar yet wrong about my wife's face.
"My wife wished to pay her respects," I say smoothly, cutting off whatever recognition might be dawning. My voice carries the kind of authority that's preceded violence, that's left men bleeding out in alleys. "Such unexpected tragedy deserves acknowledgment."
The woman backs away.
The Hewsons arrive like vultures descending on carrion, their black Town Car disgorging them twenty feet from where we stand.
Mrs. Hewson's gaze locks onto Emma immediately, calculation sharpening her features into something predatory.
My fingers itch for the blade in my jacket, imagining how easily Mrs. Hewson's throat would open, how her blood would pool on her designer shoes.
"Darling!" Mrs. Hewson's voice carries across the cemetery with sweetness that doesn't reach her eyes. "How thoughtful of you to come. Though I'm surprised you remember our little Mariam."
The test begins immediately. I feel Emma's spine straighten against my palm, her body preparing for battle even as she maintains her grieving pose. Christ, the way she rises to meet threats makes me want to bend her over the nearest headstone and show her exactly what her courage does to me.
"Some kindnesses stay with you," Emma says carefully, her intelligence shining through the performance.
Mrs. Hewson grips Emma's arm, her manicured nails digging in hard enough that I see my wife flinch.
The marks will bruise, deliberate harm disguised as affection.
My jaw clenches, violence coiling in my chest like a spring wound too tight.
I've broken fingers for less. Fed men their own teeth for daring to mark what's mine.
"Oh yes," Mrs. Hewson continues, her grip tightening, "remember those lovely tea parties you and Mariam would have? She'd bring you those special biscuits from the kitchen, the ones with lavender?"
A lie. I can see it in the cruel twist of her mouth, the way Mr. Hewson shifts uncomfortably behind her. They're testing what Frances knows, what Emma will agree to, how well she can play this game. The smell of fresh earth mingles with Mrs. Hewson's cloying perfume, making my stomach turn.
Emma tilts her head slightly, her quick thinking saving her. "Mariam's service was always… memorable."
Not agreement, not denial. Smart girl. My clever little liar learning to navigate their traps.
"Indeed." Mrs. Hewson's smile could cut glass. "Such loyalty in servants is rare these days. Don't you agree, Mr. Rosetti?"
"Loyalty is everything in our world, Mrs. Hewson.
As are the secrets servants keep about their employers.
" I let my gaze drift meaningfully to the wooden casket, then back to her now-pale face.
"Amazing what they take to their graves.
Or don't. I've been known to be very… thorough in extracting information from reluctant sources. "
Her face drains of color, fingers loosening their grip on Emma's arm.
I watch as her other hand tightens on her purse strap, knuckles going white as fear replaces her earlier confidence.
She's processing my words: threat or observation?
Both, really. It depends entirely on how stupid they decide to be.
"Speaking of loyal servants," I continue conversationally, "you must sleep so soundly knowing yours have been with you for decades.
All those years of accumulated knowledge about your family's…
habits. Financial records, personal preferences, those special medications Mr. Hewson takes that aren't exactly prescribed. "
Mr. Hewson steps forward, his own fear barely concealed beneath his businessman's mask. "Perhaps we should let the service begin."
"Of course." I guide Emma away from Mrs. Hewson's toxic presence, noting the red marks already forming on her arm. Each mark is a debt I'll collect with interest. "We wouldn't want to delay anyone's final rest. Or hasten anyone else's."
The priest drones through generic prayers while we stand at the graveside.
Emma maintains her composure beautifully, Frances's mask perfect, the ideal picture of distant sympathy rather than personal grief.
The sound of dirt hitting the wooden casket echoes across the cemetery, each thud like a heartbeat counting down to something breaking. Until the moment everything changes.
Three children emerge from behind another mourner. The oldest maybe eight, clutching the hands of twins who can't be more than four. They wear ill-fitting black clothes clearly borrowed for the occasion, their faces bearing that hollow look of fresh orphans.
"Mama," one of the twins whimpers. "Where's Mama?"
Emma's breath catches, a sound so small only I hear it.
Through the veil, I see the tears start to fall, not the decorative tears of performed grief but genuine, soul-deep agony for her friend's children.
Emma bleeding through Frances's armor. Her whole body begins to shake against me, trembling like she did on our wedding night but for entirely different reasons.
"Three children," she whispers, broken. "She had three babies and now…"
Mrs. Hewson's head snaps toward us, sensing weakness like a shark scenting blood. Other mourners are starting to notice too. Why is the Hewson princess crying so hard for a servant she barely knew?
I don't think. I just move, pulling Emma against my chest, using my body to shield her genuine grief from prying eyes.
Her tears soak through my shirt immediately, the heat of them burning through expensive cotton.
Her hands clutch my jacket as she tries to muffle her sobs, and fuck me, her complete surrender to my protection makes my cock twitch.
I'm sick enough to get harder from her vulnerability, from the way she trusts me completely in this moment.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair, quiet enough that only she hears. "Breathe, stellina."
"She worked herself to death for them," Emma whispers against my chest, her grief too raw to contain. "Sixteen-hour days, never complaining, just trying to keep them fed and now they're alone and…"