The Billionaire widowers Last Wife

Eloise had just set foot on the last step when a voice called out behind her.  

"Excuse me."  

The word was polite. The tone wasn't.  

She turned, slow and careful.  

Three people stood there, watching. Then another drifted over, and then one more, all of them dressed in black, eyes too bright, the sort of hungry curiosity that doesn't belong at a funeral.  

They didn't crowd her right away. They just gathered, forming a loose circle, like the path itself had decided she was staying put until they finished with her.  

A woman in a black dress looked Eloise up and down, not rushing, eyes sharp, as if she were hunting for answers in the way Eloise stood.  

"I don't recognize you," the woman said.  

"Neither do I," said a man beside her, stepping closer. His breath smelled like mint. His eyes were sharp with judgment.  

"Were you invited?"  

Eloise stayed quiet.  

The silence made them lean in, hungry for her to break.  

Someone behind the man murmured, "She was inside."  

"I saw her near the front."  

The air got tighter, thicker.  

The woman tilted her head. "Strange. I remember her friends. I remember faces. I don't remember yours."  

Still, Eloise said nothing.  

The man frowned. "Did you know his wife?"  

She left that question hanging.  

Then, softer, another voice: "You do know who he is, right?"  

Curiosity sharpened. Suspicion crept in.  

"So you're brave," someone said, almost a whisper. "Or just greedy."  

A thin smile touched the woman's lips. "Tell me you're not one of those girls who thinks a funeral's a shortcut. Rich widower. No ring. Easy climb."  

Heat rose in Eloise's chest. She forced it down, throat tightening, a metallic taste blooming on her tongue.  

A new woman stepped in, soft scarf wound at her neck, eyes anything but gentle. "Are you even from here? Because everyone here knows what happens. Women show up. Women disappear. Then we wear black all over again."  

Someone else cut in, "Stop pretending you came for respect. You came to be seen."  

Another voice: "She sat close enough to be noticed."  

That one stung. Not because it was true, but because it was loud. Grief still hung in the air, heavy and raw, and they used it like a weapon.  

"People talk," someone said.  

"Everyone talks."  

"You must've heard something."  

Eloise met the man's gaze and held it.  

He shifted, unsettled.  

Silence did that to people.  

"Then why are you here?" the woman asked.  

"To pay my respects," Eloise answered.  

"That's not what she asked," the man shot back.  

Tension rippled through the group.  

"Say it plain," said the scarf woman. "Are you a friend, or are you shopping?"  

Eloise's fingers tightened on her bag strap. Her palm felt damp, but she didn't wipe it. She wouldn't let them see even that much.  

Another woman stepped closer. "You shouldn't linger near him."  

Eloise met her eyes.  

The woman didn't flinch. "Women who linger near him don't stay long."  

A whisper: "Seventeen."  

"No. Eighteen."  

"I heard nineteen."  

"The number doesn't matter," the woman said softly. "The ending does."  

The man nodded. "Bad luck follows that man."  

"Bad luck?" someone echoed. "That's one word for it."  

A dry, humorless sound ran through them.  

"You should leave town while you still can," the man added. "Unless you've got debts. Unless you're chasing a rich widower."  

That one landed.  

Eloise's breath caught, sharp and fast, but she pulled herself steady.  

"You don't know anything about me," she said.  

"Then tell us."  

She kept her silence.  

It pressed in, heavier now.  

"You don't belong here," the woman said.  

"I know."  

Eloise stepped forward.  

They parted, just enough for her to pass, waiting for her to falter.  

She didn't.  

Gravel shifted under her heel. She stepped out onto the path. Behind her, the chapel doors looked smaller now, like the building itself had turned its back.  

"Who are you... Do I know you?"  

The voice came from behind-low, rough, careful.  

She stopped.  

The air changed.  

Conversations faded. Movements slowed. Even her interrogators pulled back a little, like something invisible had slipped into the space between heartbeats.  

She turned.  

Cassian Blackmoor stood a few feet away.  

Up close, he looked worse for wear.  

Not weak.  

Just worn down and like the thing keeping him upright had been at it too long. His suit fit perfectly, but grief had carved deep marks. His eyes were bloodshot at the edges-his jaw tight, the kind of ache that comes from too many sleepless nights.  

He watched her, steady, like he was hunting for a memory just out of reach.  

She didn't break eye contact. She didn't answer, either.  

His gaze narrowed a little.  

He studied her with this quiet intensity that felt almost physical, like the space between them had weight. His eyes drifted across her face, learning it, memorizing. It made her skin prickle. Not with fear, but with the strange, sharp feeling of being truly seen.

Behind Eloise, the woman in the scarf muttered, "Mr. Blackmoor, you don't need to."

Cassian ignored her. He lifted his chin just a touch, and the crowd loosened its grip but not out of kindness, just instinct. People always back away from something that feels dangerous.

A trace of emotion flickered across his face and vanished before anyone could name it.

Eloise unsettled him. She could see that.

Cassian's fingers twitched at his side.

Eloise kept quiet.

The world shrank to that thin line between their eyes. Her heart thudded, one hard beat, like a door slamming shut. She hated that he'd just asked something that made her feel like she didn't belong, when all she wanted was to disappear.

For a moment, the coffin flashed in her mind again. The flowers, the way someone said the widow's name like passing sentence. She'd promised herself not to get tangled in anyone else's grief. Yet here she was, stuck under the gaze of a man who wore his sorrow like fatigue, surrounded by people hungry for a story.

Eloise forced herself to relax her shoulders. Breathe. In and out, slow and steady. Just take a step, she told herself. One step and you're out. Don't give them today.

Then she felt it.

Not a sound. Not movement.

Awareness.

Her gaze drifted past Cassian's shoulder and stopped.

A man stood by the iron gate, watching her. He didn't hide or try to catch her attention. Hands in his pockets, posture easy, head tipped a little, like he already knew how this scene would play out.

His face was blank. No curiosity, no threat, nothing that explained why he watched her so intently.

Eloise didn't recognize him.

But she knew, with a cold weight sinking in her gut, that he'd been watching her long before she noticed him. And he didn't look at anyone else.

Cassian followed her gaze. His body went still not tense, just absolutely still. The kind of stillness that means you know exactly who you're seeing.

Eloise's stomach dropped.

The man at the gate met her eyes and let his mouth twitch up, just barely. Not a friendly smile. Not exactly cruel either. More like he enjoyed not being understood.

She didn't know his name, but she got the message. I see you. I can get to you.

Cassian's eyes snapped back to Eloise, sharper now, like the question he'd asked had twisted into a silent warning.

She had no idea who the man was.

But she knew, with a sudden and total certainty, he wasn't a stranger to Cassian.

And that was much, much worse.