Stay Dead This Time Chapter 08
I froze.
“When Aunt Daphne was around, Father only ever smiled at her. Grandmother said I’m a wretched child who never should’ve been born, so I don’t deserve to be held by Father. I wanted to go say good morning to Father once, and Grandmother said I was an eyesore.”
Ansel’s voice grew smaller and smaller. “Mother, what does ‘wretched child’ mean? Does it mean I’m worse than other children?”
I pulled him into my arms, and the tears I had been holding back finally fell. “No. You’re not a wretched child. You’re the most precious thing in my life. And you’re the only legitimate heir of the Montclair estate.”
Ansel gave a muffled hum against my chest, his small fingers gripping the front of my dress.
“Mother, don’t cry.”
“Alright. I won’t cry.”
I wiped my tears and made a silent vow. In this life, I would never let anyone hurt Ansel again.
On the seventh day, it was the funeral procession.
I was awake before dawn. Today was the day the death-feigning potion would wear off. It was also the day I had staked everything on.
I dressed in plain black, made myself presentable, and took Ansel to the chapel.
Inside, the coffin was sealed and ready. There were banners for a general’s funeral, and the candles flickered in the dim air.
Vivienne had been ‘escorted’ out for the occasion and sat in a chair off to the side. Her face was ashen, and her eyes were swollen red. She had clearly been crying through the night.
When she saw me walk in, she opened her mouth as if to speak, then said nothing. These past few days had taught her that resistance was useless.
I sat in front of the chapel and began to lead the funeral rites.
“The hour has come.” I rose to my feet, my voice echoing through the open hall. “Lift the coffin.”
The words had barely left my mouth when frantic footsteps came pounding from outside.
A woman stumbled in, caked in mud from head to toe. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess. It was Daphne. She had escaped from the crypt.
“He’s not dead! He’s not dead!” Daphne threw herself onto the coffin, pounding on the lid like a woman possessed, her voice so shredded it was barely human. “Stellan isn’t dead! He’s not dead! He’s not dead! You can’t bury him! He’s really not dead!”
The chapel erupted. Everyone stared at Daphne in shock, then at the coffin, then at each other.
Vivienne’s head snapped up. A flicker of hope passed through her eyes, but it died just as quickly. She glanced at me, and her face went even grayer. Her lips trembled, but she did not say a word. She knew that whether Stellan was alive or dead no longer mattered. I had made sure of that. And then it happened.
A dull thud came from inside the coffin. Everyone heard it.
Daphne’s eyes lit up instantly. She threw herself against the coffin and clawed at the lid with both hands. “Stellan! Stellan, you’re awake! I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead!”
She whipped around to face me, her expression twisting into something vicious and triumphant. “Elara Renworth! Your plan just fell apart! Stellan’s awake! He’s alive! Just you wait. The moment he gets out of there, he’ll throw you out like the garbage you are!”
There were more thuds, louder now. The lid of the coffin shifted, pushed from the inside, and a gap appeared. A pale hand reached through the opening.
Stellan Montclair was alive.
He shoved the lid aside and sat up in the coffin. His face was deathly white, his lips had gone purple, and his eye sockets were sunken deep. He looked like a corpse that had just crawled out of its own grave.
The potion had only just worn off, and his body was still dangerously weak. Even opening his eyes took visible effort.
“I’m… not dead…”
The words scraped out of him, faint as a dying flame.
