Chapter 1 The Forbidden Kiss at the Funeral

# Chapter 1: The Forbidden Kiss at the Funeral

I never thought I'd wear black to meet him again. The rain seemed appropriate—heavy droplets falling against the church windows as I sat in the front row, a perfect stranger among family. My fingers kept tracing the engagement ring that now felt like a shackle. Three months. We were supposed to be married in three months.

"Danielle." A hand touched my shoulder. "It's time."

I looked up to see his mother—my almost mother-in-law—her eyes rimmed red but somehow still judging. Even in death, I needed to be the perfect match for her perfect son.

The cemetery was worse. Each step through the mud felt like I was sinking into quicksand. They all watched me—his colleagues, his friends, his extended family—waiting for the performance of the grief-stricken fiancée. I obliged, standing straight-backed as they lowered the coffin, my tears hidden behind a black veil.

"He always said you were strong." The voice came from behind me, low and familiar yet different. I didn't need to turn to know it was Jake—Robert's younger brother. The black sheep to Robert's golden boy.

When the ceremony ended and people began to disperse, I remained, staring at the fresh marble headstone. Robert James Mitchell. Beloved son, brother, and fiancé. I traced the engraved letters with my eyes, wondering how I'd become the latter when I barely knew who he really was.

"You can cry now. They're gone." Jake appeared beside me, hands in his pockets, his dark suit slightly rumpled compared to everyone else's pristine attire.

"I've been crying for days," I replied, my voice hoarse.

"No, you haven't." He looked at me with those eyes—so similar to Robert's in color but wildly different in what they revealed. "You've been performing. Just like he trained you to."

The accusation stung because it held truth. I turned away, finally allowing real tears to fall. They were hot against my cold cheeks, and once they started, I couldn't stop. My knees gave way, and I fell forward, catching myself on the cold stone of Robert's grave.

I expected Jake to leave. Instead, I felt strong hands grip my shoulders, turning me around. Before I could protest, he had me pressed against the headstone, his thumbs wiping away tears that wouldn't stop flowing.

"Look at me," he commanded, and when I did, I saw no sympathy in his eyes. "This is the first genuine emotion you've shown since he died. Why are you crying now? Because you miss him, or because you're finally free?"

"How dare—"

His thumb moved from my cheek to my bottom lip, which I'd been biting so hard it had split. The touch was intimate, inappropriate, and sent a shock through my system that made me freeze.

"Why cry?" he asked, his voice softening as his thumb gently traced the small wound. "He liked you best when you smiled. The perfect, pleasant fiancée who never complained, never cried, never wanted anything he didn't want first."

I slapped his hand away. "You didn't know him like I did."

"No," Jake agreed, stepping back but still close enough that I could smell his cologne—nothing like the expensive brand Robert wore. "I knew him better."

As twilight descended on the cemetery, Jake offered to drive me back to the Mitchell family home, where I'd been staying since the accident. I accepted only because the alternative was riding with his parents, who looked at me like I was both a treasure to be protected and a reminder of what they'd lost.

The wake was being held there, and I played my part—accepting condolences, sharing appropriate memories, smiling sadly when required. Jake disappeared early on, and I envied his escape.

It was nearly midnight when the last guests left. I slipped away from the cleanup, seeking solitude in the home theater room where Robert and I had spent countless evenings watching films he selected. I sank into the plush leather chair, exhausted from performing grief when my actual feelings were so much more complicated.

The door opened, and Jake entered, carrying two glasses of whiskey.

"Thought you might need this," he said, handing me one.

"Your mother would disapprove. Robert never let me drink whiskey."

"Good thing he's not here to stop you then."

The words were cruel, but I took the glass anyway, letting the amber liquid burn my throat.

"Did you love him?" Jake asked suddenly.

"Of course I did."

"That wasn't what I asked. I asked if you loved him. Not if you were supposed to love him."

I stared into my glass. "I don't think that's a fair question today."

Jake leaned forward. "It's the only day it matters."

We sat in silence until he stood abruptly. "I need to check something. Wait here."

Curiosity got the better of me after ten minutes. I wandered through the dark hallways of the Mitchell home until I saw light spilling from beneath the door of the memorial room, where Robert's portrait and personal items had been arranged for the wake.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Jake standing before his brother's photograph. In his hands was a thick document that I recognized immediately—our prenuptial agreement and marriage contract, which Robert had drafted with his lawyer's precision. It was over thirty pages of stipulations about my behavior, appearance, and obligations as his wife.

I watched in shock as Jake methodically tore the document to pieces, letting them fall at the base of Robert's portrait like confetti.

"You don't own her anymore," he whispered to the photo. "You never did."

My heart pounded so loudly I was certain he would hear it. I backed away from the door, retreating to the theater room where I emptied my whiskey glass in one burning gulp.

When Jake returned, his expression was carefully neutral, but there was something different in his eyes—a strange light that made me shiver.

"I should go to bed," I said, standing on unsteady legs.

"Of course. Big day tomorrow. Mother wants to discuss your living arrangements now that—" he paused, "—now that things have changed."

As I passed him on my way out, he caught my wrist lightly. "Emma," he said, my name sounding different on his lips than it ever had on Robert's. "Remember that you're not bound to him anymore. You're free to be whoever you want."

I pulled away, unsettled by his words and by the way they resonated within me. "Goodnight, Jake."

That night, I dreamt of tearing paper, of black veils lifting, and of thumbs tracing split lips with gentle pressure. I woke gasping, tangled in sheets that felt too confining, in a guest room of a house where I was no longer sure of my place.

On the nightstand sat the engagement ring I'd removed before sleep. In the moonlight, the diamond seemed colder, its edges sharper than before. I picked it up, studying it as if seeing it for the first time.

It was beautiful, expensive, and chosen without any input from me. Just like the life Robert had planned for us.