"The crystal chandelier cast a cold, haunting light over the extravagant floral arrangements of the most expensive funeral in the city.

The deafening crack of splintering mahogany echoed off the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling, freezing hundreds of high-society guests in place. The young man, dressed in soaked, disheveled clothes and wielding a heavy iron crowbar, swung again with desperate, furious strength.

"Get him off of there!" screamed Julian Ashford, the fifty-two-year-old billionaire widower. His immaculate, grief-stricken facade completely dissolved, replaced by a contorted face of pure, frantic panic. "Shoot him! Security, kill him!"

Four armed private guards rushed down the main aisle, but they were too late. The iron crowbar wedged into the cracked lid, leveraging it open.

A sharp, horrific gasp tore through the coffin's darkness.

Scratching sounds—frantic, bloody fingers clawing at satin lining—erupted from within the casket. A gasp of genuine air hit the lungs of a woman who had been buried alive.

The lid crashed to the marble floor, exposing Clara Ashford—or rather, Clara Vance. She was pale, her delicate hands covered in her own dried blood from trying to claw her way through the sealed velvet. Oxygen flooded her chest, and she let out a piercing, ragged cry.

"Leo..." Clara gasped, reaching her trembling, blood-stained hands toward the young man with the crowbar.

"I'm here, Clara! I'm here!" Leo sobbed, throwing his arms around her and lifting her out of the silk-lined box.

Julian drew a small silver pistol from inside his tailored suit jacket, his knuckles white. "She's an imposter! That's not my wife! Clear the room!"

Before Julian could pull the trigger, two uniformed police officers—who had followed Leo’s erratic driving to the cathedral—tackled Julian from behind, forcing the pistol from his hand. The ballroom-turned-funeral hall exploded into utter chaos as high-society guests scrambled for the exits, whipped into a frenzy of terror and morbid fascination.