ELIA PARKER POV:
The old caretaker, bless his oblivious heart, was well out of sight, lost somewhere among the weathered headstones. Kolby Wells, however, remained rooted to the spot, his face a mask of horrified disbelief. His hand, still clutching my arm, felt like a cold brand. He was holding a single, wilted red rose, a pathetic gesture of remembrance. He dropped it, letting it fall onto the damp grass like an afterthought. It rolled to a stop, its petals already browning at the edges.
His shock quickly morphed into something uglier, something familiar. Resentment. Anger.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "You're supposed to be gone. We mourned you. We buried you!"
A cold, mirthless laugh escaped my lips. "Oh, did you? How terribly inconvenient for you, then, to find me breathing." I pulled my arm from his grasp, the action sharp and deliberate. "Don't bother with the feigned guilt, Kolby. It doesn't suit you. It never did."
He flinched, his eyes narrowing. "Guilt? What are you talking about? We were devastated. Uncle Benson, Caitlyn, me... we were all heartbroken."
"Heartbroken enough to host a lavish funeral for a ghost," I countered, my voice flat. "Heartbroken enough to engrave this stone with lies. Convenient, isn't it? Erasing the inconvenient truth of what you did."
Kolby' s jaw tightened. "That's not fair. We did what we thought was right at the time. Uncle Benson was shattered. The company was in disarray because of your actions. We had no choice but to move on."
"Move on?" I scoffed. "You mean capitalize on my supposed demise. You celebrated, Kolby. Don't pretend otherwise." My mind flashed back to the last time I saw him, five years ago. Not here, not in a cemetery, but in a sterile hospital room, my body bruised and broken after the 'accident' they fabricated.
I remembered the phone call. My voice, weak and desperate, from the hospital bed. "Kolby, please, I need your help. They're saying I leaked the designs. I didn't do it. You know I didn't."
He had stammered then, something about "damage control" and "Uncle Benson's reputation."
"You remember that call, don't you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the damp air like a razor. "The one where you told me to 'just disappear' for a while until things blew over? Conveniently knowing I had no savings, no home, no one."
He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering. "I... I was under a lot of pressure, Jillian. You have no idea what it was like. Caitlyn was pregnant. We were planning the wedding. Uncle Benson was losing his mind. It was a crisis."
"A crisis you profited from," I said, a bitter taste in my mouth. "A crisis that was deliberately orchestrated. You called it a crisis. I called it betrayal."
I remembered begging him. "Kolby, please. Uncle Benson won't even answer my calls. He's my family. He raised me. Tell him I'm innocent. Tell him to come see me. I'm alone."
His voice on the phone had been cold, devoid of any genuine emotion. "He can't, Jillian. It's too much. And honestly, your timing is terrible. Caitlyn's wedding dress fitting is tomorrow. He needs to be there for us."
The memory was like a fresh wound. I had been lying in a hospital bed, barely clinging to life, framed for a crime I didn't commit, and my supposed family was more concerned with a wedding dress.
"You said it yourself, Kolby," I continued, my voice gaining strength, each word a hammer blow against his composure. "'You're dead to us.' Don't you remember saying that? When I called from the hospital, begging for help, you told me I was 'dead to the family.' So, I obliged."
He recoiled, his face paling. "I didn't mean it like that. I was stressed. Everyone was upset. You were always so dramatic, Jillian. Making mountains out of molehills." He looked me up and down, his eyes widening again, taking in my expensive coat, my perfectly styled hair, the subtle confidence that now radiated from me. "But look at you. You certainly don't look like someone who 'died.' You look... expensive. Is this your grand plan? To come back and get revenge? You fake your own death, just to spite us?"
"Spite you?" I let out a genuine, booming laugh this time, but there was no humor in it. "Kolby, please. You flatter yourself. My life now is so far beyond anything you could conceive. I'm happy. Truly happy. And that has absolutely nothing to do with you or your pathetic little family drama."
He bristled. "Happy? You can't be happy. You lost everything. But look, maybe we can put the past behind us. Uncle Benson would be thrilled to see you. We could... we could talk. Make amends." He took a step closer, a desperate, calculating glint in his eyes. "We could even offer you a position back at Wells & Associates. Not in design, of course, that's Caitlyn's domain now, but maybe in management…"
I cut him off with a raised hand. "Kolby, listen very carefully. I am not Jillian Henry. She died here, five years ago, by your hand. I am Elia Parker. And I am not here for amends. I am not here for a job. I am certainly not here for you."
I turned, my back to him, and started to walk away, my heels crunching on the gravel path.
"Jillian, wait!" His voice was a desperate rasp. "You can't just leave! We're family!"
"Family?" I called over my shoulder, not bothering to turn back. "You wouldn't know family if it bit you in the ass."
I heard his choked gasp, but I kept walking. The cold wind bit at my cheeks, but inside, I felt nothing but a glacial calm.
