Chapter 3 - The Resurrection Party
The memorial service was scheduled for Saturday morning at St. Mark’s Cathedral—a grand, gothic limestone structure overlooking Lake Union. Michael had spared no expense. The floral arrangements alone cost more than my first car, featuring thousands of white lilies imported directly from the Netherlands.
According to the obituary published in the Seattle Times—which Michael had personally authored with trembling, tear-stained adjectives—his beloved wife Eleanor had tragically succumbed to smoke inhalation during a sudden electrical fire, trapped behind locked doors while her heroic husband desperately tried to breach the flames.
It was a masterpiece of fictional melodrama.
By ten o'clock, mourners dressed in somber black suits and elegant wool coats began filling the polished oak pews. Colleagues from Michael's tech firm, neighbors from our apartment complex, and distant relatives I hadn't seen in years gathered in hushed, reverent whispers.
At the front of the chapel stood an ornate mahogany casket, closed and draped in a heavy velvet pall, topped with a framed photograph of me smiling at a dinner party two summers ago.
And right beside the casket, standing tall in a bespoke charcoal-gray suit with a silver silk tie, was Michael. He looked every bit the devastated widower. His shoulders were slightly slumped, his eyes were ringed with carefully applied cosmetic redness to simulate sleepless nights of weeping, and he was receiving condolences with slow, dignified nods.
Standing just two paces behind him, wearing a tasteful black sheath dress and a delicate string of pearls, was Sophie Lane. She wore a black lace veil that shadowed her face just enough to hide her triumphant smirk.
The heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral creaked open.
A hush fell over the congregation as the organ music faded into absolute silence. All heads turned toward the back entrance, expecting late arrivals or perhaps representatives from the mayor's office.
Instead, steady heels clicked against the stone floor.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
I walked down the central aisle alone.
I wore a tailored crimson coat that cut through the sea of black like a blade of fresh blood. My hair was freshly styled, falling in dark waves over my shoulders, and my face bore no signs of soot or injury—only an expression of absolute, unyielding stone.
Whispers erupted instantly.
"Good god..." someone gasped in the third row.
"Is that... is that Eleanor?"
"She's alive!"
Michael froze mid-sentence as he was shaking hands with his firm's senior partner. Slowly, mechanically, he turned around. His face drained of every drop of color until he looked paler than the lilies on my casket. His jaw went slack, and his eyes bulged as if he were staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
Sophie gasped, clutching her pearls so hard the string looked like it might snap.
I walked past the front pews, ignoring the stunned stares of our friends and colleagues, and came to a dead stop right in front of the mahogany casket. I reached out, picked up the framed photograph of myself resting on the velvet, and turned it over to examine the back.
"It's a lovely service, Michael," I said, my voice carrying clearly through the cathedral's vaulted acoustics without even needing a microphone. "Though I have to admit, the floral budget is a bit excessive for someone who isn't even dead yet."
Michael stumbled backward, his heel catching the edge of the flower stand. He looked like a man who had just seen a phantom rise straight out of hell.
"E-Eleanor?" he stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak that stripped away every ounce of his cultivated dignity. "How... how are you... the hospital said..."
"The hospital said I suffered from smoke inhalation, darling," I smiled, stepping closer to him until I could smell the expensive cologne he had worn the night he left me behind for dead. "They didn't say I died. But I suppose you were too busy carrying other people out of burning buildings to check my pulse."
The congregation erupted into chaos. Whispers turned into shouting matches, and several senior executives stood up from their pews to get a better look at the unfolding disaster.
May you like
Sophie tried to retreat toward the side exit, her face turning crimson with panic, but Marcus—my attorney—stepped out from behind a limestone pillar, blocking her path with a thick manila folder in his hand.
"Ms. Lane," Marcus said smoothly, flashing a cold, professional smile. "Don't rush off. We have some very interesting paperwork regarding corporate embezzlement and apartment lease transfers that I think you'll want to sign before the police arrive."
