As Victor's shout reverberated through the room, cutting through Christabel's rapid speech, her words stilled. The sudden silence left a cold emptiness in the air. His declaration that his death was not about her echoed in her ears, and for a moment, she felt a chilling realization settle over her.

"And yet you were not the one who lost everything, Victor," Christabel responded, her voice steady but filled with a quiet cold sorrow. It dawned on her then that he had not considered the cost to her, the price she had paid in trying to remain a wife to him, even in death. She had lost not just her husband but her future, her autonomy, and the children she would never have.

"I knew you did not love me when we married," she continued, her voice trembling in vulnerability and self-reproach. "I told myself we would have a lifetime to come to that, that we should have come together at your passing, but you wanted nothing to do with me." The weight of the unspoken pain hung heavy in the room, and she hated herself for the tremor in her voice. She hated that her brother had been right, that he had warned her, and that he had been correct. She hated admitting Ozy was right about what was for dinner.

In that moment, the truth of their situation became painfully clear. The gap between them, whether in life or death, seemed insurmountable. The love she had yearned for had slipped through her fingers, leaving behind a bitter residue of regret and unfulfilled dreams. "So what do we do now Victor?" she asked flatly.