I thought my husband’s funeral would be difficult enough. Then my mother-in-law publicly blamed me for everything. What happened next changed the entire room.

PART 3
The chapel erupted into pure, unadulterated chaos.

Women screamed. Two board members stumbled backward over their pews. Flynn let out a choked, terrified cry, falling to the floor as if he had just seen a ghost.

Luca swung his legs out of the coffin, stepping down onto the dais carpet. He reached up, wiped the pale funeral makeup from his jaw with a handkerchief, and stood tall beside me.

Wendy backed up against the altar, her face completely drained of color, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “L… Luca? No… this… this is impossible! You… you died in the ICU!”

“I survived your poison, Mother,” Luca said, his voice cold, steady, and vibrating with absolute authority. “Though I know how disappointing that must be for your financial timeline.”

Flynn scrambled to his feet, trembling violently. “This is a trick! It’s a hoax! He’s unhinged!”

“Is it a hoax, Flynn?” I asked, pulling a sleek black tablet from my handbag. I tapped the screen once.

The chapel’s large projection screens—meant to show a memorial slideshow of Luca’s life—flashed brightly.

Instead of childhood photographs, the audio and video feeds from the chapel’s internal microphones began playing in high definition.

Wendy’s recorded voice echoed through the house speakers with terrifying clarity:

“When this circus is over today, you will sign the widow’s waiver. The estate, the shares, and his patents belong exclusively to the Sterling family.”

Then Flynn’s recorded voice:

“Once she signs the waiver, burn the remaining accounting files in the study.”

And Wendy’s cold response:

“There won’t be anything left for anyone to find.”

The board members stared at the screens in absolute horror. The reporters at the back of the chapel were frantically typing on their laptops and broadcasting the live footage directly to their news networks.

Wendy’s hands began to shake uncontrollably. “That… that recording is fabricated! It’s an AI generation!”

Before she could finish her sentence, the heavy wooden double doors at the back of the chapel were thrown open.

A squad of armed federal agents, accompanied by state detectives and Dr. Arthur Vance, marched down the central aisle.