The house smelled like death.

It was a sickly sweet smell, a mixture of thousands of lilies and the expensive perfume of people who came to gawk at their tragedy. The staff moved like ghosts, silent and terrified of making a sound.

Elise sat in the parlor. Her dress was black. Her stockings were black. Even her thoughts felt black.

She felt like a prop. A doll placed on a sofa to complete the scene of "Grieving Family."

Her mind drifted. It was a defense mechanism. She went back to a dinner, six months ago.

Flashback.

The dining room table was long enough to land a plane on. Joyce sat at the head. Jarret was to her right. Jayden was to her left.

They were identical physically. Same dark hair, same sharp jawline. But everything else was different. Jarret sprawled in his chair, taking up space. Jayden sat with a military stillness, his spine not touching the back of the chair.

"The speech was brilliant, Jarret," Joyce said, cutting her steak. "The polls are up three points."

"I know," Jarret said. He swirled his wine. He looked across the table at his brother. "Maybe Jayden can learn something. If he ever decides to get a real job."

Jayden didn't look up from his plate. He was wearing his dress uniform. "I'm deployed next week, Jarret."

"Playing soldier," Jarret scoffed. Under the table, Elise saw Jarret's polished shoe kick Jayden's shin. Hard.

Jayden didn't flinch. He just took a sip of water. His eyes met Elise's for a second. They were sad. Resigned.

End Flashback.

"Tragic."

The voice snapped Elise back to the present.

Cristine Velazquez stood in the doorway of the parlor. She was Elise's cousin, technically. A distant relation on her mother's side who had somehow latched onto the Barrett social circle like a barnacle.

She wasn't wearing black. She was wearing a navy blue dress that was too tight across the chest and definitely too short for a house of mourning.

She walked past Elise without looking at her. She went straight to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her lipstick.

"But he died a hero," Cristine said to her reflection. She smacked her lips. "That's good for the brand."

Elise stared at her. Cristine's eyes were bright. She didn't look like she had been crying. She looked... energized. Like she had just drunk a double espresso.

Joyce entered the room. She looked haggard, her skin grey, but her hair was perfect.

Joyce walked right past Elise. She went to Cristine and hugged her. It was a warm, genuine embrace.

"We must be strong for the cameras," Joyce said, pulling back and smoothing Cristine's hair.

"I'm ready, Aunt Joyce," Cristine said. She wasn't actually her aunt.

"Joyce," Elise said. Her voice sounded rusty. "When is the funeral? I haven't been told the arrangements."

Joyce turned to Elise slowly. Her eyes were cold stones.

"Jayden will handle the body transfer," she said. She spat the name Jayden like it was a curse word. "He is the survivor."

"I should be there," Elise said. "I am his wife."

Cristine pulled her phone out. She scrolled through something, a small smile playing on her lips.

Elise caught the reflection of Cristine's screen in the mirror. It was a text message. There was a giant red heart emoji.

At a time like this?

"Good news, Cristine?" Elise asked, sharpness leaking into her tone.

Cristine locked her phone instantly. "Just condolences, Elise. People love me. Unlike some."

The heavy oak doors opened. Mr. Henderson, the family lawyer, walked in. He was carrying a briefcase that looked heavy enough to contain bricks.

"Joyce," Mr. Henderson nodded. He ignored Elise.

"Family business, Elise," Joyce said, waving a hand at Elise like she was a fly. "Go rest. You look terrible."

"I am family," Elise said, standing up.

Cristine laughed softly. It was a mean, tinkling sound. "For two months. Hardly a matriarch, sweetie."

Joyce caught the eye of the security guard standing in the hall. He took a step forward. A silent threat.

Elise looked at them. The mother, the cousin, the lawyer. A wall of ice.

She turned and walked out. She went up the grand staircase, her legs heavy. But she stopped at the landing. The acoustics in this house were strange; if one stood in the right spot, the sound from the parlor funneled up.

Elise leaned over the banister, hidden by the shadows.

Cristine was pouring herself a drink from the crystal decanter. She looked like she had won the lottery.

"We need to secure the trust before the will is read," Joyce was saying to the lawyer. Her voice was urgent. "If she finds out about the clauses..."

"We need her signature," the lawyer murmured.

Elise stepped back from the banister. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She wasn't just a widow. She was a liability. And they were plotting to cut her out before Jarret's body was even back on American soil.

Elise needed to find her copy of the prenup. Now.

The limousine smelled of leather and stale mints.

They were in a motorcade of black SUVs, winding their way toward the National Cathedral. Elise was stuck in the middle seat, sandwiched between Joyce and Cristine.

Joyce was staring out the window, muttering talking points to herself. Cristine was fixing her hair in a compact mirror, her elbow digging into Elise's ribs every few seconds.

Cristine capped a bottle of water. Her hand slipped.

Cold water splashed over Elise's lap, soaking the black silk of her dress. It looked like a dark stain spreading across her thighs.

"Oops," Cristine said. She didn't look sorry. Her eyes gleamed with malice. "Clumsy me."

Joyce didn't even turn her head. "Cover it with your purse, Elise. Don't look sloppy."

Elise gritted her teeth. She took a napkin and dabbed at the water. She wouldn't let them see her cry. Not over water. Not over anything.

The car stopped. The doors opened.

The flashbulbs were blinding. It was a wall of white light. The noise was deafening-shouting reporters, clicking shutters.

Elise stepped out. She held her head high, clutching her purse over the stain. She walked up the cathedral steps, her heels clicking on the stone.

Inside, the air was cool and heavy with incense. The elite of D.C. were there. Senators, generals, lobbyists. A sea of black suits.

Elise stood by the closed casket. It was draped in a flag. She didn't know if Jarret was actually inside, or if it was empty. The explosion reports had been... graphic.

A Senator approached them. He was a silver-haired man with a face like a bulldog. He took Joyce's hands.

"A tragedy for the nation, Joyce," he said. He nodded vaguely in Elise's direction.

Cristine stepped forward, cutting Elise off. She placed a hand on the Senator's arm.

"It's so hard," she murmured, batting her eyelashes. She was acting like the grieving widow.

Elise felt a surge of anger. It started in her toes and shot up to her throat.

She stepped around Cristine. She extended her hand to the Senator.

"Senator," Elise said, her voice firm. "My husband spoke highly of you."

It was a lie. Jarret had called him an old fool. But the Senator didn't know that.

He looked surprised, then charmed. He took Elise's hand. "You are very brave, Mrs. Barrett."

Cristine glared at Elise. Her nostrils flared.

They sat in the front pew. The service began. The organ music vibrated in Elise's chest.

Halfway through the eulogy, Cristine leaned over. Her breath smelled of peppermint and gin.

"Did you even know him, really?" she whispered.

Elise kept her eyes on the altar. "Better than you."

Cristine let out a small, sharp breath. "I wouldn't bet on that."

The words sent a chill down Elise's spine. It felt too specific. Too knowing.

The service ended. They moved to the reception hall.

The room was hot. Too many bodies. Too much noise.

A wave of dizziness hit Elise. The floor seemed to tilt to the left. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself, a sudden queasiness rising in her throat.

She needed water. She needed air.

Elise retreated to a quiet corner, near a large potted fern. She sipped a glass of water, trying to stop the room from spinning.

She looked across the crowded room.

There was a man standing near the exit. He was wearing a dark suit. He was watching her.

Elise's heart stopped.

It was Jarret. The posture. The tilt of the head.

She blinked. She rubbed her eyes.

When she looked again, the space was empty. Just a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.

"It's just grief," Elise whispered to herself. "Hallucinations."

But her hands were shaking so bad the water sloshed in the glass.

She needed to leave. She needed to secure her future.

Elise pulled out her phone. She dialed her bank's automated line. She needed to check her personal savings, the money she had before the marriage.

Access Denied.

She tried again.

Account Frozen. Please contact the branch.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of grief. They had moved faster than she thought.

Elise spotted Nina across the room. Nina was holding a tray of appetizers, looking miserable.

Elise grabbed her arm as she passed.

"Go to the house," Elise whispered. "Get me a copy of the prenup from the safe. Now."

Nina looked at Elise's face. She saw the fear. She nodded once and disappeared into the crowd.

Elise stood there, surrounded by the most powerful people in the country, and realized she was completely broke. And completely trapped.

They were back at the estate.

Elise stood on the front porch. The wind was picking up, blowing dead leaves across the driveway.

A military escort pulled up. Two soldiers in dress blues got out. Then, the back door opened.

A cane hit the pavement first.

Then a man stepped out.

He was wearing civilian clothes-jeans and a sweater. He had a bandage around his head and his arm was in a sling. He leaned heavily on the cane.

It was Jayden.

Or rather, the man the world said was Jayden.

Joyce rushed down the steps. She stopped three feet away from him. Her face hardened.

"You made it back," she said. Her voice was devoid of maternal warmth. "And my son didn't."

The man looked down at the pavement. "I'm sorry, Mother."

Elise watched from the porch. His voice... it was low and raspy, as if strained by his injuries. It lacked the smooth polish of Jarret's public voice, but also the deep, velvety texture Elise remembered from her wedding night.

She shook her head. Grief was making her crazy. It was making her hear things.

Cristine ran past Joyce. She threw her arms around the man.

"Oh, thank god," she sobbed. She buried her face in his neck.

It was too intimate. The hug lasted five seconds too long.

The man winced. He pulled away from her, his eyes darting to Elise.

He limped up the stairs. He stopped in front of Elise.

"Elise," he said. "I... I was with him at the end."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch. Jarret's watch. The glass was cracked. He held it out, his gaze steady and assessing, as if weighing Elise's reaction.

Elise took it. The metal was cold against her palm.

She looked into his eyes. They were blue. They were Jarret's eyes. But they were also Jayden's eyes. They were identical twins.

"Did he suffer?" Elise asked. Her voice trembled.

"No," he said softly. "It was quick."

"Enough," Joyce snapped from the driveway. "Get inside. We have to discuss the press statement."

They moved into the dining room. Dinner was served in silence.

The man sat in the chair at the head of the table. Jarret's chair.

Joyce slammed her silverware down.

"That is Jarret's chair," she hissed.

The man paused. He looked at Joyce. For a second, just a split second, a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. It wasn't the look of a submissive younger brother. It was a look of entitlement.

He stood up slowly, feigning a wince of pain, and moved to the side chair.

Elise watched him. Why would the "beta" twin feel entitled to the "alpha" seat?

Cristine was sitting next to him. She kept touching his arm. "Are you okay? Do you need water? Wine?"

Elise felt the nausea rise in her throat again. She pushed her plate away. The smell of the roast beef was making her stomach turn.

Joyce glared at Elise. "Eat, Elise. You look gaunt. It's bad for the press photos."

"I'm not hungry," Elise said.

"Eat," Joyce commanded.

"Leave her alone, Mother."

The voice cut through the room like a whip.

They all froze. The man-Jayden-was staring at Joyce. His tone was commanding. Authoritative.

Joyce looked shocked. "Excuse me?"

"She's grieving," he said, his voice dropping back to a softer register, but the edge remained. "Let her be. The press would have a field day with a grieving widow collapsing at her first family dinner."

Elise looked at him. He was staring at his plate, gripping his fork so hard his knuckles were white.

Why was he defending her? Jarret never defended her. Jayden barely knew her.

Something was wrong. The air in the room felt charged, like a storm was about to break.