Married To My SISTER'S BILLIONAIRE WIDOWER

(Flora POV)

Black looks different on everyone else.

To me, it looks like a lie I’m forcing my body to wear—tight at the throat, heavy at the wrists, like grief has weight and my dress is stitched out of it. The chapel is packed, but somehow the air still feels thin. Perfume, lilies, polished wood, and the faint metallic bite of rain dragged in on shoes.

My sister would’ve hated this.

She would’ve leaned close and whispered something wicked about the pastor’s hairline, then squeezed my hand like she’d saved me from drowning. She would’ve rolled her eyes at the sympathetic faces and the careful murmurs—like everyone is afraid a wrong word might crack me open.

Maybe they should be afraid.

I sit in the front row because that’s where the family sits. Because that’s what you do when you’re the surviving sister, the one who’s supposed to look devastated but dignified. My hands are folded in my lap, fingers laced so tightly my knuckles ache.

Don’t cry yet, Flora.

Not until you know who’s watching.

The framed photo beside the casket shows her smiling like the world never touched her. That picture is old. I can tell from the shade of her lipstick—she stopped wearing that color last year. She said it made her look “too harmless.”

She wasn’t harmless.

She was careful. She was the kind of careful that saved receipts and screenshots and recorded voice notes “just in case.” She trusted me with her secrets, even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones.

So when they told me she died in a car accident, my first thought wasn’t sorrow.

It was: That doesn’t fit her.

The pastor speaks. Words drift over the room like ash—beloved, taken too soon, tragic accident. People bow their heads and pretend they understand the shape of my loss.

I lift my eyes instead.

Row three, aisle seat: a man in a charcoal suit, hands clasped, gaze fixed on the casket. He doesn’t wipe his eyes. He doesn’t shift. He looks… still. Like a security camera pretending to be human.

Behind him, a woman in pearls leans to whisper to someone. Her eyes flick toward me and away, quick as a blink. Not sympathy. Assessment.

A few seats farther back, a younger man checks his phone, then pockets it when he notices me watching. His jaw tightens.

I’ve been to funerals before. I know grief makes people strange.

But this isn’t grief.

This is surveillance.

My throat burns. I swallow hard and force my face into something calm. My sister used to call it my “boardroom mask,” like I’d been born to sit across from men who thought they could buy me.

I never wanted that life.

But I can wear the mask when I have to.

When the service ends, the room exhales. Chairs scrape. Soft crying turns into murmured condolences. People line up like they’re waiting for entry into some exclusive club called Closure.

I stand when I’m supposed to stand. I accept hugs that feel like hands searching for weakness. I listen to strangers tell me she was kind, she was bright, she was a light.

She was a storm, actually. But they didn’t know her.

A woman in a pale gray coat steps forward. “Flora, honey.”

Aunt Marlene. My mother’s sister. She smells like powder and old money and the kind of control that never slips.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and her eyes shine just enough to look convincing.

“Thank you,” I answer, because there are rules for this.

Her fingers squeeze my elbow. “They said the police still have some of her things. But don’t worry, we’ll get everything sorted.”

My stomach dips. “Some of her things?”

Marlene hesitates, just a fraction. “Her personal effects. Phone, purse… that sort of thing.”

My voice stays level. “Where are they now?”

“Evidence,” she says quickly, like the word is supposed to settle me. “Standard procedure.”

My sister’s phone as evidence. Her dashcam as evidence. Her life reduced to a bag with a tag.

Except my sister didn’t drive without her dashcam. She installed it herself and made me promise I’d never let anyone “touch her footage” if something happened.

If something happened.

I step away from Marlene before my face betrays me, moving toward the side door where the funeral director’s staff are gathering programs. A man in a black vest looks up as I approach.

“Hi,” I say softly. “I’m Flora. Her sister.”

His expression shifts into professional sympathy. “Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I need to pick up her belongings,” I say. “Her phone, her dashcam, anything from the car.”

He blinks. “Those were released to—” He stops, glancing toward the hallway, like he’s checking who can hear. “I’m not sure.”

Not sure.

People are always sure about paperwork. Funerals run on paperwork. Death is a business.

I keep my tone polite, but I let the edge show. “Could you check? There should be a property record.”

He nods too fast. “Yes, ma’am. One moment.”

He disappears behind a door. I wait, staring at the muted floral arrangements, the ribbons printed with scripted condolences. My nails press crescents into my palms.

Behind me, voices soften, then hush. The air shifts. I don’t turn right away. I let them think I don’t notice.

Then I do.

Charcoal Suit is standing near the entrance, pretending to read a memorial card. The pearl woman is nearby, speaking with Marlene. The younger man with the phone is leaning against the wall like he belongs here.

They’re spaced out.

A triangle.

My pulse stutters.

What are you afraid I’ll find?

The staff man returns, face pale. “Ms. Flora?”

“Yes.”

He clears his throat. “I checked the log. Her purse and jewelry were released to the family representative. But… the phone and the dashcam—those aren’t listed as returned.”

My mouth goes dry. “Not returned to who?”

“To anyone,” he says, voice dropping. “They’re marked as missing.”

Missing.

That word lands in my chest like a stone. Missing isn’t an accident. Missing is a choice.

I force myself to breathe. “Who signed for the rest?”

He hesitates again. “It was… an authorized pickup. I’m not allowed to—”

A shadow falls across us. Someone steps close enough that I feel warmth at my shoulder.

“Flora.”

Marlene’s voice is sugar over steel. She smiles at the staff man. “Thank you. We’ll handle it.”

My aunt’s fingers curl around my arm again, too tight to be affectionate. Her nails are perfect. Her grip is not.

“We don’t need to bother the staff,” she murmurs, leaning in like this is a kindness. “You’ve had enough today.”

I look at her hand on me, then up at her face.

“Who’s the family representative?” I ask quietly.

Her smile doesn’t move. “Me, darling.”

“And the phone?” I press. “The dashcam?”

Marlene’s eyes flick—just once—toward Charcoal Suit. Then back to mine.

“It’s being handled,” she says.

Handled.

Another choice word.

I gently remove her hand from my arm. Gently, because there are witnesses. Gently, because if I make a scene, I become the story instead of my sister.

But inside me, something sharp uncoils.

“Okay,” I say, calm as glass. “Then I want the case number. The officer’s name. And a copy of the property log.”

Marlene’s smile tightens. “Flora—”

“I’m her sister,” I cut in, still soft, still polite. “If her phone and dashcam are missing, I’m not leaving until I know why.”

For the first time, my aunt’s mask slips. Just a flash of irritation. Fear, maybe.

Charcoal Suit shifts, taking one step closer.

And in that second, I understand something with a cold clarity that steals the breath from my lungs.

My sister didn’t just die.

Someone made sure her voice couldn’t survive her.

I lift my chin, meeting the watching eyes in the room one by one.

Fine.

If they want to watch me, I’ll give them something worth watching.

Because I’m not here to mourn quietly.

I’m here to find what they stole.

And I’m not leaving without it.