NATALIA
It was a strange thing, planning your own funeral.
There was no playbook for it. No checklist. No eulogy to write. Just decisions to make in hushed tones—what kind of coffin, what kind of crowd, what kind of lies would be carved into the stone.
I sat across from Damon in the study, the morning sun stretching long shadows across the floor. Between us lay the worn leather folder he kept his private affairs in. Inside: a forged death certificate, a falsified coroner’s report, and a set of identification documents for the deceased woman we would pass off as me.
She had once tried to kill me.
A rogue with my height, my build. Mutilated beyond recognition during the ambush. I didn’t feel bad about it, her choices had led her down this path. The convenience too useful to ignore.
Dam
