The rest of the night passed slowly.
Christine slept only in fragments, waking whenever Claire moved or whimpered. Each time, she opened her eyes and remembered where she was: inside the funeral parlor, beside the little girl who had lost her mother, with Joseph sitting outside the door like a man punishing himself.
By morning, pale light slipped through the curtains. Claire's face was still swollen from crying, but her breathing had become steady. Christine gently removed the child's hand from her shirt and stood with stiff legs.
Today, Celine would be buried.
Christine did not know what she was supposed to feel.
Relief felt cruel. Grief felt dishonest. Anger felt exhausting. For years, she had carried the weight of Celine's hatred, but now that the woman was gone, Christine felt strangely hollow. There would be no apology. No confession. No moment where Celine would look at her and admit the truth.
The dead could leave wounds behind and never answer for them.
Christine opened the door quietly and stopped.
Joseph was sitting on the chair outside the room, arms crossed, head tilted slightly against the wall. His eyes were closed. He had fallen asleep there.
She stared at him.
In sleep, he looked less untouchable. The hardness remained, but exhaustion softened the edges of his face. There were shadows beneath his eyes, faint stubble along his jaw, and one hand resting near the door as though even in sleep, he was ready to protect whoever was inside.
Christine's heart twisted.
Then bitterness came again, sharp and familiar.
Why now?
Why did he have to be gentle now, after all the years when she needed him most?
"Stupid man," she whispered.
Joseph's eyes opened.
Christine froze.
His gaze focused on her immediately, alert despite his exhaustion.
"Did Claire wake up?" he asked.
"No," Christine replied. "She is still sleeping."
He stood, straightening himself as though he had not just spent the night in an uncomfortable chair. "Good."
"You slept here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You know why."
Christine crossed her arms. "Because you enjoy making yourself look pitiful?" She is melting but she can't be convinced easily. She decided she will not make it easy for him.
Something flashed in his eyes.
"I wanted to make sure no one disturbed you."
"Or you wanted me to see you here and feel guilty."
Joseph's expression hardened. "That's unfair."
Christine lifted her chin. "So was everything you believed about me."
Silence fell between them.
Joseph looked away first. His hand curled briefly at his side, then relaxed.
"This is not how I want us to start the day. You are angry," he said.
"I have been angry for years."
"I know."
"No, Joseph. You are only seeing it now because I am no longer hiding it."
He looked back at her, and this time there was no defense in his eyes. Only acceptance.
"You are right."
Christine hated how those words weakened her anger. Why does he agree with her so easily?
Footsteps sounded from the hallway before she could answer. Jolo appeared carrying two cups of coffee and a paper bag. He stopped when he saw them.
"Oh," Jolo said, looking from Joseph to Christine. "Am I interrupting something tense and emotionally exhausting?"
Christine reached for one coffee. "You are saving me."
Joseph's eyes narrowed.
Jolo handed her the paper bag. "Bread. You barely ate last night."
Christine smiled faintly. "Thank you."
Joseph watched the easy exchange, and the fragile softness in his face disappeared.
Jolo noticed, of course. He always noticed when it came to annoying his older brother.
"What?" Jolo asked innocently. "Should I have brought you bread too?"
"No," Joseph said coldly.
Christine looked between them. "It is too early for both of you."
Jolo grinned. "Tell him that. He looks like he wants to throw me down the stairs."
"I am considering it," Joseph muttered.
Christine almost choked on her coffee.
Jolo laughed, and from inside the room, Claire called weakly, "Big sister Christine?"
Christine immediately turned back. Jolo followed her inside, still carrying the other cup of coffee. Joseph remained by the doorway, watching.
There it was again.
Jolo moved around Christine as if no walls had ever stood between them. He teased her, worried for her, touched her shoulder without making her stiffen. Christine accepted his presence naturally. She trusted him.
Joseph clenched his jaw.
Jealousy burned in him, ugly and unreasonable. He knew Jolo had been kind when he had been cruel. He knew Jolo had earned Christine's trust while he had destroyed his own. That knowledge did not make the jealousy disappear. It made it worse.
Inside, Claire sat up, her eyes swollen but calmer when Christine sat beside her.
"Princess Claire, today you must eat breakfast," Jolo said. "That is an order from your very handsome brother."
Claire frowned. "You are not handsome."
Christine covered her mouth, laughing softly.
Joseph entered just in time to hear it.
For a brief moment, the heaviness of the funeral faded. Claire giggled weakly, Jolo pretended to be wounded, and Christine smiled with real warmth.
Joseph stood still.
That smile.
He wanted a lifetime of that smile.
But wanting was not enough.
Later that morning, as the household prepared for the burial, Christine returned to her room and changed into a simple black dress. She tied her hair neatly and stared at herself in the mirror.
A model.
A daughter.
A sister.
A woman loved by the man who had once broken her heart.
She did not know which reflection was real.
Her phone vibrated.
It was Charlie.
"Christine," he said, his voice urgent but excited. "I know this is bad timing, but there is an offer. A big one. Perfume campaign in M City. They want you as the face of the relaunch."
Christine's fingers tightened around the phone. "When?"
"Fittings in three days. Shoot next week. It could put you back on top."
Three days.
After the burial. After Claire's tears. After Joseph's confession.
The timing was cruel.
"Do you want it?" Charlie asked.
Christine looked at her reflection again.
She remembered the mansion, Claire's small hands, Jolo's laughter, and Joseph's eyes when he said he loved her.
Then she remembered M City. The lights. The cameras. The life she built because no one came to save her.
Her voice steadied.
"Yes," she said. "I want it."
When she ended the call and opened the door, Joseph stood in the hallway.
He had heard enough.
"You are leaving," he said.
Christine lifted her chin. "I am going back to work."
His face tightened. For one dangerous second, anger flashed in his eyes.
Then he stepped aside.
Christine stared at him, surprised.
Joseph's voice was quiet but strained. "After the funeral, we will talk about how you can go back without running away from me."
"You do not get to decide that."
"I know."
"Do you?"
His jaw flexed. "I am trying."
Christine looked at him for a long moment.
Joseph held her gaze. "I said I would not lock the door. But I never said I would stop fighting for you."
Christine's heart trembled.
For the first time, leaving felt less like freedom.
And staying felt less like surrender.