PART 1: Rain clung to the rooftops of Saint Aurelia as if the sky refused to let go of its grief. In the hillside cemetery of Valmont Ridge, mourners in tailored coats gathered around a polished oak coffin. Wealth had a scent here. Imported lilies. Foreign cologne. The trembling hush of people who feared scandal more than sorrow.
Inside that circle stood Jack Halberg. The world knew him as a formidable hotel magnate. Yet today he was only a widower whose composure cracked like thin ice. On the portrait set against the coffin, his wife Mirelle smiled in a shimmering blue gown from a charity gala. Her brightness mocked the grey afternoon.
