The church emptied slowly.

Not because people wanted to stay—but because no one knew how to leave after witnessing something that ugly.

Reporters were pushed out. Phones were lowered. Whispers faded into awkward silence.

Soon, only a few people remained.

Damian stood at the altar, still in his white suit, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. His tie was loose. His eyes were empty. Not angry anymore—just hollow.

Max hovered nearby, unsure whether to speak.

Aria stood a few steps back, watching him without moving closer. She knew better.

Grandma Eleanor sat calmly in the front pew, her walking stick resting against her knee, eyes fixed on her grandson.

The...