ONE

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

ST. VINCENT CHAPEL

Los Angeles was warm despite the rain. It hit me as soon as I stepped out of the limo, ready to follow my mother across the parking lot to the front doors of the chapel. It had been two years since I had been home and to say I was nervous was an understatement. I kept my eyes down as my heels clicked across the asphalt, only pausing to talk to people.

"Oh, Elizabeth." Mother stopped as a blonde woman took my mother's hands. "How are you making out? I can't imagine how hard things must be for you."

Elizabeth Godsworth put on a grim face under her over-sized, black lace hat. Automatically I tuned her out as she started spinning her stories, telling everyone what she wanted them to hear. No one would know the real story, not even me, the daughter of the deceased. She kept her power by withholding the truth, and in turn, spreading the lies.

I folded my hands in front of my black, Armani dress. It was above the knee yet still modest and covered my collarbone with matching lace. My heels gave me the height that I need to survey the attendees, nervous yet still wanting to see if I could recognize him.

Someone else came over to talk to us and I turned away. I didn't want to fake any smiles or pretend to know what happened to my father while people looked at me with sad eyes.

With a look of fake concern, Mother took my hand. I didn't understand the warm gesture until she pulled away, and I felt the small, white pill in my palm. She looked at me briefly while she talked to the women, giving me a stern look.

Take it.

On my tongue and down, down, down it went until I realized I no longer heard my mother, droning onto her crones. In fact, I no longer hear anything at all. I'm buzzing like a bee, ready to take off and fly away.

A limo pulled up to the curb of the church, only twenty feet away, and suddenly I was back on the ground, faintly listening to the murmur of people walking among us. Two years had drastically changed my life, and I'd forgotten what Hunter Cross had always been infamously known for. He was never on time for anything. He had even shown up late to his own mother's funeral, or so I had heard. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep at school I read online for news of my old life, however minimal the truth the words actually held. It kept me company when no one from my old life would.

I gently touched the crook of my mother's arm, my black gloves stark in contrast to her porcelain skin. She was saying thanks and turning to leave, but I haven't yet seen him.

"Mother, wait." I stopped so she couldn't pull me along and she slowly turned her gaze to the street. For a moment her red lips pressed firmly together. I wonder what her expression held under those big, dark sunglasses. Was she tired? Was she surprised? "Are they supposed to be here?" I whispered.

Everyone's chatter slowly died down to a buzzing when the door opened. My father's death remained unsolved, but even I had heard the rumors.

Mother didn't answer me. Instead, the church bells rang, gathering us and she was off, walking solemnly towards the ancient wooden front doors. People paused, looking from her to the limo. They wanted to stay to watch the entrance but my mother wasn't one to anger. Bodies started brushing past me, gradually moving towards the church.

I didn't join them.

It's only a moment and then he's outside, dressed in a tailored black suit with a tie that could only be tied in precision Cross fashion. Of course I recognized him. He still had the same strong jaw and the full lips I had kissed two years ago. I blushed and wondered if his eyes were still the same amazing blue I remembered. The color of the sky at midnight, I had told him once before.

He looked up briefly as he held out his arm to someone else inside the limo. His dark blonde hair fell gently on his face and he brushed it away from his eyes. I watched as he surveyed the crowd, his gaze easily passing over me.

Disappointed, I dropped my hand and took a step backward, only hovering to see his stepmother take his arm and exit the limousine.

Vivian Cross was still the same woman I remember, only this time she was dressed in Versace. It's a dark grey dress, matching a lace hat that blends into her pulled back hair that was shades lighter than her step-sons. Despite this being a funeral, a slit rose in her dress dangerously above her knee.

She smiled affectionately at her escort and allowed the chauffeur to shut the door behind them. No, Mr. Cross has not attended after all and instead sent his family. I start to think about which is worse. Known rival of Robert Godsworth showing up to his funeral when he's rumored to be the killer? Or not showing up at all and dealing with the aftermath?

I wouldn't have shown up either. In fact, if I could get out of the event entirely, I would. But having me at his service would make my father happy, so I stuff down my complaints. It's the least I could offer him.

My gaze rose and time seemed to pass slowly when Hunter Cross finally met my eyes. It's the same look he had given me before I was sent away. He looks disappointed as if he was hoping that I wouldn't have left France for the funeral of my own father. I pressed my lips tightly together and willed my cheeks not to blush. More than anything, though, Hunter looked like he's hurt.

Suddenly a small but firm hand grasped my wrist and pulled me with the stragglers in the direction of the church. My gaze broke from Hunter's and turned to the blonde who was pulling me along. I tried to twist out of her grasp but she didn't relent. Instead, she slowed a step and moved her lips near my diamond earring.

"I may hate you for leaving, but I couldn't let you make a fool of yourself on your first day back." She dropped her fingers and instead hooked her arm through mine. I tried not to stare at the red marks on my skin.

At the bottom of the church steps, I finally get a look at her. Deep green eyes and sun-kissed skin, a smile that hides more than it tells. My heart stopped beating in my chest.

"Wren?"

"It was like watching a car crash – it was horrible and I couldn't look away."

I'm grateful to my former best friend for sparing me, but I'm more confused than anything. I didn't get to explain things to her when I left. Of course, she has every reason to hate me, since I never said a word for two years. Yet here she is again, by my side and guiding me through a rough point in my life.

"Thank you," I whispered as we walked up the stairs. A doorman opened the big door, ushering us in as two of the last few people to enter. The church entrance was dark with red carpet, and despite not being in it for more than a few years, I still recognize all the parts of it I used to be familiar with.

Wren unhooks her arm from mine and gives me a small smile before she leaves to take her seat. There's only one empty spot on the front pew that's occupied by my family. It sticks out like a sore thumb. Even as I pass my mother I can feel her annoyance with me. The energy in the Godsworth pew isn't grim. It's tense.

Marcello Godsworth, my dad's younger brother, reached out to touch my hand. His eyes are heavy as he gives me a nod and then he's was back to sitting straight, his hands clasped tight enough in his lap that they start turning an ugly shade of red.

I know Hunter is inside when the church doors close for the final time. The heaviness of them falling shut vibrates in my chest and for one, fleeting moment, I don't feel the guilt.

My back stiffens when the priest clears his throat at the podium. I hadn't realized he was starting, let alone there.

"We are here today to pay tribute to the life of Robert Godsworth and offer comfort to the family of the departed..."

I kept my eyes on my shoes. They're sparkle dusted Louboutin's that I had picked out without much thought. Maybe because of Gabrielle's comment. They hurt my feet and I constantly felt like I was about to topple over. I turned my ankle and felt the ache there. I was never going to wear these shoes again.

The worst part of the funeral is when the casket is carried out into the graveyard. It's a long walk to the Godsworth plot, where my father will be buried with his parents. They died in an accident years ago. I had only been a few years old at the time. It was my first funeral in a long line of them all taking place here, at the church.

There are roses and another eulogy and then the casket is being lowered into the ground, six feet under. Mother chokes back a sob as the first shovelful of dirt hits the roses we threw on top. I wondered if her crying is real or fake. I reached out towards her, ready to comfort her when she stiffens. My hands fell to my sides and I intertwined them in front of me, trying not to feel terrible for letting my guard fall. The day my mother showed any kind of affection would the end of the world. I had always thought that she would still scold me while on her deathbed. But as my father is being buried, it doesn't seem like a funny jest anymore.

I could barely make it through the condolences before I slip away, excusing myself to my mother and the guests around her. The ground is damp and my heels sink into the grass. With a quickened pace, I round a corner of the path and finally, I'm out of sight.

"Ugh," I grunted. It's the first moment I had to myself so I rip my heels off and watch a callus start to bleed onto the cobblestone. Mother was going to be livid. The blood pools out of it and mixes in with the raindrops that had fallen earlier until my blood doesn't look like a crime scene anymore. "Stupid, stupid, stupid shoes." I threw one as hard as I could in frustration but as it bounced onto the ground, nothing happened. I'm still left full of anger and now down a shoe.

"Did the shoe make a comment about your dress? Because I can assure you, you look stunning."

Hunter bent down to pick up the sandal and his hair fells in front of his eyes again. He closed the distance between us and yes, when he was in front of me I could see that his eyes were still the same dreamy color of a midnight sky.

He was older. More defined and taller. Still handsome? Quite possibly. And he was holding out my shoe to me, like some rendition of Cinderella getting a glass slipper. But I was no princess while he was definitely prince charming.

And the fact that I was also standing on a graveyard pathway in dirty, bare feet didn't really help.

I really needed to get it together.

My fingers grasped the thin strap of the shoe. "Thank you," I replied quietly. "I just...I was having a moment."

He gave me a small smile. "Well, all things considered, I think you're completely entitled to have a moment. Maybe even two."

It had been two years since we last saw each other. We had been sixteen and carefree and somehow things seemed exactly the same, even if it's just a comment that brings me back.

I walked across the wet grass to a stone bench and started to brush off my feet. Hunter followed and stood in front of me, staring off towards where we're supposed to be. "I needed a breather," he explains, even though I didn't ask. "These people exhaust me."

With one heel back on the ground, I started on the other

"I didn't miss this," I said. "The needing breathers, I mean. I did miss being...being here."

"How long are you here for?"

Oh. That was his reason for following me out here. He wanted to know how long he was going to have to put up with me for before he could go back to hating me and pretending I never existed in his lifetime.

"Honestly, I'm not sure."

Hunter frowned. "I can only imagine." And then our moments over, and he's stuffing his hands in his pockets. We're strangers again. "I'm sorry for your loss, Pip," he said. "I hope you have a safe trip home. Wherever that may be." Then he's gone, walking away, but not towards the church or the service. He's leaving.

By the time I make it back the crowd is starting to leave. I took a deep breath and then bit my tongue as I appeared beside my mother. She was alone, for the first time in hours, and standing a few feet off to the side, staring at the sky with her hands on her hips.

"It's going to rain," she said, looking up at the gray clouds. "Your father would make it rain on his funeral. He was always so gloomy." She pulled a clear umbrella from her purse and opened it above her. "Come, let's go home. I want this day to be over with and we still have a reception to host."

She started walking and as she passed me, I took my spot beside her, under her umbrella. Just as we hit the halfway mark to the black limousine that's waiting at the curb, the raindrops started to fall. They weren't tiny, either. They were the fat, smacking raindrops that made you run inside to hide from the storm.

"See?" She paused in front of the door and handed the chauffeur the umbrella as she spoke to me. "I told you he was dramatic."