I stared back right into his eyes.
Cold. Calm. Dark.
Like none of this meant anything to him.
Like Mark dying was just another business deal.
He stretched his hand toward me slowly, that fake soft face on, pretending sympathy. Pretending grief. Pretending like he cared.
I knew that look.
Mockery.
He wasn't offering comfort.
He was laughing at me.
Right there. In front of everyone.
"My condolences," his eyes said.
My chest burned.
Something ugly and hot rose inside me.
I took the hand he stretched forth towards me in mockery—
—and threw it out into the air.
Hard.
Like his touch disgusted me.
Like touching him made my skin crawl.
Gasps sounded around us.
But I didn't care.
I had held myself together up until this point.
Held my tears.
Held my anger.
Held my pride.
Held everything.
But right then—
Whap.
A slap landed across his face.
The sound was sharp.
Loud.
Clear.
It echoed.
For a second the entire place went quiet.
Even the cameras stopped clicking.
Even the whispers died.
Robert's head snapped to the side.
A red mark slowly appeared on his cheek.
My hand was still in the air, shaking.
Before I could hold it together, before I could think, before I could breathe—
I dashed at him.
All my composure?
God knows where it went.
Gone.
I grabbed his suit, pushing him back.
"Don't you dare— don't you dare look at me like that!" I shouted.
My voice cracked.
My throat hurt.
Everything hurt.
The press rushed toward us instantly like wild animals.
Cameras everywhere.
Lights flashing.
Voices yelling.
"What's happening—?"
"Mrs. Walton—!"
"Is this a fight—?"
Robert tried to release himself from my grip.
But I didn't let go.
I couldn't.
All the anger I buried.
All the fear.
All the pain.
It exploded.
There I was.
On the ground of California.
On the cold floor.
Yelling and shouting at him like a crazy person.
Like I had lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
His parents tried to make their way through the press.
His mom got lost halfway.
There were too many of those damned reporters.
Too many hands.
Too many cameras.
Too many eyes.
His father finally reached me and held me tight.
"Alexa! Alexa!" he shouted.
But at the same time, he was smiling and waving at the press.
"There's a little confusion," he said calmly.
Like this was nothing.
Like I wasn't breaking apart right there.
He signaled them to leave.
They didn't though.
Of course they didn't.
I already created chaos.
The perfect show for them.
The crazy widow.
The unstable wife.
The drama.
Why did I lose it now?
I had held myself together up until this point.
Why now?
Why him?
Why today?
My body suddenly felt weak.
Heavy.
Empty.
Like all my strength drained out at once.
Later, I sat on my chair now staring at Mark's coffin as it was finally taken away.
Slowly.
Quietly.
The wheels rolled across the floor.
That sound…
That soft rolling sound…
It broke me more than anything.
That was it.
That was the last time I would ever see him.
I couldn't say a word.
Not one.
I just sat there.
Hands folded.
Still.
Like stone.
Whispers filled the air around me.
"She's crazy…"
"Poor widow…"
"So dramatic…"
"So embarrassing…"
Every word stabbed.
But I didn't react.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
My mother-in-law said nothing.
Her face hard.
Cold.
Unreadable.
People gently left.
One by one.
Until the ceremony ended.
Until the hall felt empty.
Cold.
Dead.
Just like me.
"How could you behave that way?" my mother-in-law lashed out as I made my way back.
Her voice sharp like a knife.
"You embarrassed this family!"
I kept walking.
Numb.
Tired.
Totally not in the mood for a sermon.
"Calm down, mum," Robert held her from getting any further to me.
He faked care, of course.
"Alexa is having a rough time."
His voice soft.
Gentle.
Fake.
"And me?" she wailed. "It was my son who died!"
Her crying filled the hallway.
But I couldn't care less.
I had nothing left inside me to give.
Not anger.
Not sympathy.
Nothing.
I stepped into the mansion.
The big house felt colder than ever.
The walls too wide.
Too quiet.
Too empty.
My footsteps echoed.
Their voices slowly disappeared in the air behind me.
Everything felt far away.
Like I wasn't even there.
Like I was watching myself walk.
Like a ghost.
I reached my door.
My hand touched the handle.
It trembled.
My fingers felt weak.
Heavy.
I opened it slowly.
The room smelled like him.
His cologne.
His clothes.
His pillow.
Everything.
And the moment I opened my door—
I couldn't hold it in any longer.