Chapter 183

Chapter 183
Harper

Serena had launched from her seat, rushing toward the casket in a display of raw grief that would have impressed Hollywood directors. She collapsed before it, her body heaving with sobs, her hands clutching the casket's edge.

"Rowan!" she cried, her voice echoing through the chapel. "How could you leave us? How could you leave Henry and me? We were supposed to be married!" Her fingers trembled as they reached toward the silicone face.

The minister stepped forward, attempting to gently guide her away, but Serena shook him off violently.

"No! Let me say goodbye! Let me touch him one last time!"

She turned then, her mascara-streaked face contorting as she looked at me. "You! You took his heart and then you killed him! Are you satisfied now? You couldn't let us be happy, could you?"

The performance was so convincing that for a moment, I almost believed her pain was real. I rose, my own practiced indignation carrying me forward.

"How dare you? After what you did to our family five years ago!" I moved toward her, blocking Dr. Conrad's direct view of the casket as he tried to approach from the side. "You have no right to accuse me of anything!"

Serena lunged toward me, her hands outstretched as if to attack, forcing several security guards to intervene. The chapel erupted into chaos. Journalists who had managed to slip inside began snapping photos of the confrontation, flashes lighting up the solemn space. Security guards moved to restore order, inadvertently forming a human barrier between Michael Blake and the casket.

Samuel and Grace clung to Vivien, their eyes wide with shock at the adults' behavior. Henry Whitaker stared at his mother in horror, clearly having never seen this side of her.

"This is unacceptable," the minister announced over the commotion, signaling frantically for the casket to be closed. "This is a house of God, not a theater for drama! I'm afraid we must conclude the service early."

"Wait," Dr. Conrad called, trying to push through the crowd. "I need to—"

His words were drowned out as Serena collapsed into a fresh bout of hysterical sobbing, requiring two guards to support her. In the confusion, the attendants hurried to close the lid, securing it with swift, practiced movements.

As they did, I caught Michael's frustrated expression across the room. He hadn't gotten the close inspection he wanted. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw something dangerous flash in his—suspicion mingled with rage.

---

I found a moment of privacy in the estate's east garden after the abrupt end of the service. Through the windows, I could see Serena being confronted by Michael in a corner of the reception room. Their body language was tense, his hand gripping her elbow too tightly as he leaned in to whisper something.

My secure phone vibrated. Owen.

"Tell me he's okay," I said immediately, turning my back to the windows.

"His heart rate destabilized again during transport." Owen's voice was tight with controlled stress. "I've administered additional medication, but it's not ideal. The drug interaction is stronger than I anticipated." The clinical tone couldn't hide his concern. "His cardiac rhythm is still erratic, and I'm concerned about potential long-term damage if we continue with this level of medication."

"Can he survive this?" I asked bluntly, needing the truth.

Owen hesitated. "I believe so, but I can't guarantee there won't be lasting effects. And there's another problem—Blake's investigators are at the medical examiner's office, questioning staff about the death certificate. They're offering substantial sums for information."

I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, fighting the panic rising in my chest. "Can you move him to the backup location?"

"Not safely. Not yet. His cardiac rhythm is too unstable for another transport. If we move him and he crashes..."

The unspoken conclusion hung between us. I watched through the window as Serena pulled away from Michael, wiping fresh tears. Whatever she'd said had satisfied him for now, but his men remained stationed at key points around the estate.

"What do we do?"

"We're on borrowed time, Harper. If Blake gets suspicious enough to demand an independent examination—"

"He won't," I interrupted, more confidently than I felt. "The casket will be sealed and moved to the mausoleum tomorrow. He's lost his chance."

"And if he tries something more aggressive tonight?"

"Then we adjust." I closed my eyes, weighing impossible choices. "Just keep Rowan stable. Whatever it takes."

"Harper," Owen's voice softened. "If we have to reveal he's alive to save his life..."

"Do what you need to do," I whispered. "His life matters more than the plan."

As I ended the call, I saw Serena moving toward the garden doors. Her mascara was perfectly smudged, her eyes red-rimmed—the picture of devastated grief. Only I could see the calculation behind them.

"Well?" she asked quietly, joining me by the rose trellis. "How did I do?"

"You were convincing," I acknowledged. "Blake didn't get his examination."

"He asked if it was really Rowan in there," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He suspects something."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I'd held his hand and felt his skin. That I'd know Rowan anywhere." Her smile was razor-thin. "I convinced him, I think, but he's not a man who likes being denied what he wants."

I studied her face, still marveling at our strange partnership. "Why are you helping us, Serena? Really?"

Something genuine flickered across her face. "Because Blake terrifies me more than you do. Because Henry deserves better than to be his pawn." She glanced back toward the chapel. "And because for all our differences, I never wanted Rowan dead."

"What's our next move?" she asked after a moment.

I turned to face my former enemy, now unexpected ally. "We continue the performance. Tomorrow, the 'body' will be moved to the Whitaker mausoleum under heavy security. In the meantime, we keep Blake occupied with business concerns."

"And Rowan?"

I looked up at the cloudless sky, sending a silent prayer to whatever forces might be listening. "We pray the main actor recovers for the final act."

Behind us, the chapel bells tolled a mournful cadence for a man who wasn't dead. Not yet, anyway. And I was determined to keep it that way, no matter what it cost.