Chapter Seventy.

"It's been three weeks"

There was a crack in Isabella's voice as she mounted the podium in a sheer black dress and holding a mic dressed with roses. Her eyes were as sour as her voice, let's face it, the makeup couldn't even cover how bad she had been fairing since standing in that hospital next to Bryson.

"I'm sorry, your aunt didn't make it" Were the words she felt would always echo back to her. Not just echo, haunt and stir her guts from the inside out. Whenever it did, she would feel the tears fill her eyes and slowly trickle down her heated face. But she faced the congregation beneath the lavender canopy and she swore she wasn't going to cry now.

Not today—not the day of Majorie's funeral.

There were flowers everywhere and a bunch of sad, long face. There was an eerie stench of loss and grief that lingered in the atmosphere no matter how light she desired it to be. A scoff escaped her lips as Isabella heaved a deep breath of it. There was a moment of silence observed just before