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Chapter_4
Whitney’s heart hammered in her chest as she stood hidden behind the flowers, her mind racing. For a brief, eternal moment, the world seemed to freeze. The casket jolted again, louder this time, followed by a muffled thud. The crowd’s murmurs died down, replaced by the sound of gasps and unsure whispers.
Monica froze, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face draining of color. She stumbled backward, bumping into someone behind her as the sound of the casket shaking continued to reverberate through the room. The mourners, confused and terrified, exchanged anxious glances.
Tiana, kneeling on the floor in a daze, looked up, a flicker of recognition and hope in her eyes. She had always known Whitney was stronger than they gave her credit for. The rumors of her death had been a lie, and now the truth was beginning to emerge, as clear as day.
Then, without warning, a hand—pale, yet unmistakably alive—pushed through the velvet of the casket, splintering the fabric. The crowd collectively held its breath, trying to make sense of the impossible. More muffled thuds echoed, and another hand appeared, clawing its way out with a terrifying force.
Preston, standing at the podium, could barely comprehend what he was witnessing. He looked at the casket in horror, his voice trembling as he tried to find words. “W-what is happening?” he stammered, stepping back instinctively.
Monica’s wide eyes locked on the casket, her chest tightening with a paralyzing fear. She had been the one who had orchestrated Whitney’s “death,” and now, standing before her was the nightmare she never imagined would come true. Whitney, alive, more defiant than ever.
Whitney’s presence loomed over the room as she stood behind the floral arrangement, her chest rising and falling with determination. Her breathing steady, her expression cold and unwavering. She glanced around the room, every eye now fixed on her, and, with one decisive move, she pushed the casket open. The velvet cloth fell away with a rustling sound, and Whitney emerged, her movements slow and deliberate.
The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by gasps of disbelief. The funeral, which had been about mourning her death, was now turned upside down. Preston’s hands trembled as he gripped the podium, his voice faltering as he attempted to speak.
“W-Whitney?” he whispered, unable to process the shock. “How—how is this possible?”
Whitney’s eyes locked onto his, and she spoke, her voice calm but laced with cold fury. “You really thought you could bury me, Dad? Just like that?” Her words hung in the air, each syllable a heavy blow.
Monica, still frozen, struggled to find her voice, but her body trembled with fear. Whitney, once the person she had thought she could manipulate and control, was now standing before her with a fire in her eyes that made her question everything she thought she knew.
The weight of the moment settled on the room, and for the first time, it was Monica who felt vulnerable. All the lies she had told, all the schemes she had plotted, seemed to collapse around her. Her carefully constructed world of deceit and manipulation was unraveling before her eyes.
Whitney stepped forward, her gaze never wavering from Monica’s frightened expression. “You’re not getting away with this, Monica. Not anymore. I’ve come back for everything that was taken from me—my life, my inheritance, and, most of all, the truth.”
Her words cut through the silence, sharper than any knife. The funeral attendees, still stunned, looked at each other with confusion, disbelief, and curiosity. They had all come to mourn the death of Whitney Valentine, the brilliant young woman who had supposedly met a tragic end, but now they were witnessing her return—alive and determined to reclaim what was rightfully hers.
Preston, still in shock, stood at the podium, his face pale and eyes wide. “But… But you were dead…” he stammered, his words a mixture of confusion and denial.
Whitney’s lips curled into a bitter smile as she met his gaze. “I was never dead, Father. You’ve all been living in a lie. And now, I’m here to make it right. To take back what you’ve all tried to steal from me.”
The room was thick with tension, the crowd’s fear palpable. The funeral, which was supposed to mark her end, had instead become the beginning of her vengeance.
Monica, her mouth dry, finally found her voice, her words trembling. “Wh-what do you want from me?” she whispered, her eyes wide with terror.
Whitney turned to face her, her eyes cold and unwavering. “I want everything you’ve taken from me. My reputation, my legacy, my life. And I’ll make sure the world knows the truth about you. About all of you.”
Her gaze swept over the room, and for a moment, everyone seemed to shrink under her piercing stare. She wasn’t just back from the dead—she was back with a vengeance. A vengeance that would shake everything they thought they knew about her to its core.
As the crowd remained silent, Whitney took a step toward the front, her presence commanding the room. She wasn’t the helpless victim they had believed her to be. She was a force to be reckoned with, and now, the game had changed.
Monica’s composure faltered, and she clutched at the edges of her dress, the fear in her eyes obvious. “No… no, this isn’t happening. You’re just trying to make us look bad!” she stammered, but her words lacked conviction.
Whitney’s voice was steady and unforgiving. “I don’t need to make you look bad, Monica. You’ve done that all on your own.”
With that, Whitney turned toward the exit, her heels clicking loudly against the floor. She had come back, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
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