Chapter 4: The Funeral

The next day was a beautiful, sunny morning, a nice change from the cold and rain. I stood outside the cemetery, waiting for Emma. A crowd of people were gathered near the entrance, talking amongst themselves. My in-laws, some distant relatives, and some friends were all here, looking solemn and sad.

Shaking hands, pretending to care, I felt like a total fraud. I kept glancing over my shoulder, hoping to see a young girl with dark hair walking through the cemetery gates, but there was no sign of her.

"I don't know how you even do it," a voice said beside me. I turned to see Ashley, Emma's sister, looking at me with concern. She was dressed in a simple black dress, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked so much like Emma it hurt. "I feel like I'm about to throw up."

"Just doing my best to look like I'm fine," I said. I glanced at the casket, resting on a pedestal. It was open, and there she was, the empty shell that had once housed my wife's soul. It was surreal, standing here, mourning someone who wasn't really gone. "Or maybe not fine, but the socially acceptable level of not fine..."

She nodded, understanding. "You too?" She scoffed. I could see the pain in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands as she clutched her purse. She was devastated, but she was good at hiding it. That was Ashley for you. Always the strong one.

She looked around the cemetery, her eyes narrowing as she spotted someone in the crowd. "God, look at Veronica," she muttered, nodding toward a woman standing a few feet away. "She's actually enjoying this."

I followed her gaze and saw a woman in her thirties, dressed in an expensive-looking black dress that hugged her curves a bit too tightly for a funeral. Her makeup was immaculate, her hair styled in a way that suggested she had spent hours in front of a mirror. She was standing next to a balding man who I assumed was her husband, laughing quietly at something he had said, then quickly covering her mouth with her hand and pretending to wipe away a tear.

"Who is she again?" I asked, though I vaguely remembered Emma mentioning her a few times.

"Our cousin," Ashley said, her voice dripping with disdain. "Dad's brother's daughter. She and Emma couldn't stand each other. Look at her, pretending to be sad." She scoffed. "She's probably already planning what to wear to the next funeral."

I watched as Veronica made her way through the crowd, stopping to hug people, her face contorting into an exaggerated mask of grief every time she approached someone new. It was like watching a bad actress in a B-movie.

"She asked me earlier if I you were planning to sell Emma's jewelry," Ashley continued, her voice low. "Can you believe that? She didn't even wait until the funeral was over."

I shook my head, disgusted. "Jesus."

"Yeah." Ashley sighed, then looked at the open casket. "Emma would have hated this whole thing, you know. All these people pretending to care."

"You're sarcastic enough on her behalf to make up for it," I said, trying to lighten the mood. Ashley laughed, a genuine one this time. The two sisters were quite different, but shared a very similar sense of humor.

"Yeah, well," she said, "I'll do my best to make her proud."

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, giving her a half hug. "She was proud of you, Ash. Very proud. You know that, right?"

She looked up at me, tears in her eyes, and gave me a weak smile. I felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over me. She had no idea that her sister was still here, that she was alive in another body.

I looked around again, hoping to see Emma, but there was still no sign of her. Where the hell was she? "You alright?" Ashley asked. "I mean, relatively speaking, obviously."

"Yeah, I'm okay," I said. "Just thinking about Emma, you know? Wondering what she would say if she could see us here." Subtle, Cal. Real subtle.

Ashley smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "She'd be proud of you too, Calvin." She glanced at the casket again, then back at me. "She'd want us to remember her as she was, not…" She gestured vaguely at the coffin.

I nodded, understanding. "Not as an empty shell."

Ashley nodded slowly. "I guess that's one way to look at it." She sighed, then straightened her shoulders. "I should go say hello to Aunt Martha before she thinks I'm avoiding her." She squeezed my arm one last time. "Hang in there, Calvin."

I watched her walk away, her head held high despite the weight of her grief. I turned back to the casket, looking at the peaceful face of my wife's body. It was strange how detached I felt from it now. It wasn't Emma anymore. Emma was out there somewhere, in Mandy's body, making her way here. At least, I hoped she was.

I continued to shake hands, my mind drifting further away with each sympathetic nod and murmured condolence. Mrs. Henderson from next door, my boss from work, Emma's old college roommate—their faces blurred together as I scanned the crowd for Mandy. Where the hell was she? The uncertainty was eating away at me. Had something happened? Had Emma lost her grip on Mandy's consciousness?

"Such a tragedy," said someone—I didn't even register who—as they patted my shoulder and moved on.

I caught Veronica staring at me from across the small gathering. When our eyes met, she had the audacity to wink at me, her red-painted lips curling into what I suppose she thought was a seductive smile. I felt my stomach turn. Her husband was right beside her, oblivious, as she dabbed at perfectly dry eyes with a lace handkerchief that probably cost more than my suit. Every few minutes, she'd let out a theatrical sigh loud enough for everyone to hear, then immediately return to whispering and giggling with another woman. She was like a caricature of grief, a performance so bad it would have been comical if it weren't so disrespectful.

The priest approached me, his face a practiced mask of professional sympathy. "Mr. Kent, we'll be asking everyone to take their seats in about five minutes. I'll do the opening prayer, and then if anyone wishes to say a few words about the deceased, they may do so." He lowered his voice. "Will you be speaking, sir?"

The question hit me like a bucket of ice water. A speech. Of course there would be a speech. What kind of husband wouldn't speak at his wife's funeral? But I had completely forgotten to prepare anything. I left it for the last minute, grief and shock leaving me unable to string two coherent thoughts together, and then... well, between discovering my wife's consciousness in Clara's body, then finding her again in Mandy's, and then spending the night tangled in sheets with her... Jesus, what was I supposed to say? "Thank you all for coming, but don't worry, my wife is actually alive in someone else's body, and we had sex all night"?

"I… yes, I'll say something," I heard myself say. The old man nodded and moved away, leaving me in a cold sweat.

"You look positively ghastly, Calvin," came a voice dripping with false concern. I turned to find Veronica standing beside me, close enough that I could smell her expensive perfume. She placed a hand on my arm, letting it linger there longer than was appropriate. "But I must say, grief becomes you."

I resisted the urge to pull away. "Thanks," I muttered.

"Oh, don't be so glum," she said, her voice inappropriately cheerful. "**** is only the beginning, you know." She gave a little laugh, as if she'd said something clever.

I stared at her, unable to hide my disgust. "I don't think this is the time for jokes."

She smirked, her perfectly manicured fingers still resting on my arm. "Oh, come now. I think Emma would have wanted her funeral to be fun, don't you? She never was one for all this…" she waved her hand dismissively, "…dreary business."

"I don't think you knew Emma as well as you think you did," I said coldly, finally pulling my arm away.

Veronica's eyes sparkled with something I couldn't quite identify. "Maybe I know her better than you think," she said, and then winked at me again. She looked down at her own hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time, then looked back at me with a strange little chuckle.

"I'm sorry to be stuck in such an unpopular person," she said, her tone suddenly different, though I couldn't put my finger on how. "But I didn't think Mandy would cut it. People would wonder who she is."

I felt the blood drain from my face as understanding dawned on me. "Emma?" I whispered, barely audible.

I stared at her, trying to process what was happening. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. The woman standing before me was everything Emma had despised: superficial, self-centered, with that irritating high-pitched laugh and those calculated mannerisms. Yet somewhere behind those heavily mascara-coated eyes was my wife.

"Close your mouth, darling, you'll catch flies," she said with Veronica's characteristic condescension, flicking her manicured nails against my chest. "God, these nails are divine though, aren't they? I get them done weekly." She examined them with a smirk that was pure Veronica.

I finally found my voice. "How… when did this happen?"

She glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, then leaned in closer, her expensive perfume clouding my senses. "This morning. I was in Mandy's body, getting ready to come here, when I ran into Veronica at a coffee shop. She was being absolutely horrid to the useless barista—typical—and I thought, well, wouldn't it be interesting to attend my own funeral as someone who's actually invited?" She shrugged Veronica's shoulders in a fluid, elegant motion that seemed foreign on my wife. "I considered taking over Ashley, you know, but that felt… rude. She deserves to grieve properly, the poor thing."

"You say that like it's nothing," I whispered, horrified. "Like you're just trying on a new outfit."

She laughed—a grating, too-loud laugh that surely would have made Emma cringe. "I know, I know. I'm taking this all rather lightly, aren't I? But it's freeing, Calvin. I used to think Veronica was just an asshole, but now I understand—she's just learned to seize life without worrying about what others might feel or want. There's a certain power in that."

"I imagine that's her point of view, yeah," I said, shaking my head.

The woman my wife was currently inhabiting seemed taken aback, as if the self-reflection required to see her situation from an outside point of view was not a skill Veronica had honed. "It is, actually," she said quietly, looking down at her own hands again, the nails perfect, the skin smooth and unblemished. "But I suppose I see why others might disagree. People are so... fragile, aren't they? Emotions are a burden. It's much simpler to live without the less convenient ones."

"How can you even claim to be Emma when you're talking like that? My wife cared about people. She wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what? Enjoy herself?" She raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I'm still me, Calvin. I'm just… experiencing things through a different lens. I'll admit, Veronica might not be the best host in such dire circumstances. In Mandy's brain, I didn't think this through properly. But I thought inside this woman, I'd have the freedom to experience my own funeral a bit more… relaxed." Her eyes traveled down my body and back up again. "Plus, she's hot, isn't she? I thought you might want to fuck her afterward—if not out of attraction, maybe out of anger."

She winked at me again, then waved cheerfully at her husband, who was engaged in conversation with another mourner. "Poor guy hasn't fucked me in ages," she whispered, leaning in close. "Though I've been having plenty of fun with the younger neighbor. He's quite the specimen—abs you could bounce quarters off of."

As she spoke, she took my hand and, with a boldness that left me speechless, guided it to her ass, pressing it against the curve while maintaining eye contact with her husband across the room. She smiled at him innocently while my hand remained frozen against the expensive fabric of her dress.

I was horrified. I was disgusted. And God help me, I was turned on. The conflict made me feel sick with myself. This was my wife's cousin, for Christ's sake. A woman I found repulsive on a personal level, even if she was objectively attractive. But knowing Emma was in there somewhere, watching me through those eyes…

"Stop it," I hissed, pulling my hand away. "This isn't right."

"What isn't right?" she asked in Veronica's mock innocence. "That I'm in this body, or that you're getting hard thinking about it?"

I didn't doubt for a second that this was Emma—the Emma I knew was in there somewhere. But it was like watching her through a funhouse mirror, distorted and warped by Veronica's personality. How much control did she actually have? How much of Veronica was influencing her thoughts, her actions? Or worse, how much of Emma was being consumed by the women she inhabited?

"Both," I admitted quietly. "I don't like what this brain is doing to you."

She tilted her head, studying me with an expression that was suddenly more thoughtful, more Emma-like. "Or maybe it's just showing you parts of me you never knew existed." She straightened Veronica's designer jacket. "We should find our seats. The service is about to start, and I'm dying to hear what people say about me." She paused, then laughed at her own pun. "See what I did there? Dying?"

I walked toward the front of the seating area, feeling numb and on autopilot. The wind was picking up, rustling the leaves on the trees that surrounded the open field. It was a peaceful place, I had to admit. It wasn't a peaceful moment... Though, I was lucid enough to realize that funerals were rarely peaceful for those left behind. I was just experiencing a different kind of fucked up than most people did on a day like this.

The priest had begun his opening speech. I wasn't really listening. I sat next to Ashley and her parents, feeling Veronica's eyes on me from across the aisle. She was sitting next to her husband, her smirk barely hidden under a mask of faux sympathy. She was both an intruder and the guest of honor at her own funeral, and the absurdity of it was not lost on me. I hoped some part of my real wife was at least finding some genuine solace in all of this. She had to know that the people around her were hurting, missing the real Emma. She had a to care, even a little, right?

I turned to look at my in-laws. Robert and Margaret Davis looked like they had aged a decade in the past week. Robert, a tall man with the same blonde hair as his daughters, though now more gray than blonde, sat rigid in his seat, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching. Margaret, petite and usually so full of energy, seemed to have collapsed in on herself, her eyes red-rimmed and vacant. Ashley reached out and squeezed my hand as I sat down beside her.

The priest was carrying on with the usual platitudes about the fleeting nature of life and the importance of remembering those we've lost. Jesus, God, and Heaven were sprinkled into his speech, though I knew Emma had never been religious. She had wanted a non-denominational service, but I guess her parents had other ideas. I couldn't bring myself to be mad at them, though. I'd always wondered why some of my non-religious deceased relatives ended up with religious funerals. I was starting to understand. After Emma's ****, I had seen no point in denying her grieving parents anything they thought might offer them some comfort. My wife was gone. Who cared what words were said in a church?

And then it hit me again—my wife wasn't gone, she was right fucking there, wearing the skin of her cousin like a brand new dress, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the game she was playing. I shook my head to clear it. This was insane.

"Now, if anyone else would like to share some memories of Emma, please feel free to come forward," the priest was saying. Ashley gave my hand a final squeeze and then stood up. I watched her walk to the front, her head held high, her posture straight and dignified. This was all a sham, a farce. My wife was dead, and yet she wasn't. Her family was grieving, and yet the source of their grief was sitting across from them, smiling. I felt like I was losing my mind.

Ashley began to speak, and as she did, the crowd fell silent. She tried to smile, then cleared her throat, her voice trembling slightly. After a moment, she laughed, tears in her eyes. Some in the crowd laughed with her. "I'm sorry," she said, "It's just... this is so ridiculous. Emma hated these kinds of things. She would have wanted us to have a barbecue or something. She would have wanted us to laugh and remember her in a way that didn't involve black dresses and uncomfortable shoes."

Her parents chuckled at that, clearly uneasy with the unconventional eulogy, but unable to deny the truth of it. I glanced back at Veronica, and saw her smiling, a more genuine smile than I would have expected.

"But I guess we're here, and I guess we're doing this, and I guess that's okay too. So, I just wanted to say a few things about my sister." She paused, her voice catching. "Bad things, obviously. That's what she would have wanted. She always hated those sickeningly sweet eulogies where everyone lies and says the dead person was a saint."

A few more laughs from the audience. "Emma was many things," Ashley continued, "but a saint was not one of them. She was stubborn, she was bossy, she was opinionated, and she was sometimes downright infuriating," she looked over to me, and winked. "Just ask her husband."

I **** myself to smile back, and the crowd laughed again.

"But she was also the most loyal, the most caring, and the most genuine person I've ever known. She was my best friend. She was the only one who would tell me when I was being an idiot. And trust me, that happened often." More laughter, this time genuine and warm. "She was the first person to hold me accountable, and the first person to forgive me. She was my rock, and I don't know what I'm going to do without her. I don't know how I'm going to navigate this world without her guidance, her love, or her unrelenting support." She looked up at the sky for a moment, her chin quivering, then cleared her throat. "Emma, I hope you're looking down on us now and laughing your ass off at this ridiculousness. And I hope that wherever you are, you're at peace."

I looked back at Veronica again. Her eyes were twinkling, and she was smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes and crinkled the corners of her mouth. No tears, of course—that would have been too much to expect from Emma's cousin. But at least she seemed to be somewhat touched by Ashley's words.

Ashley came back to sit beside me, her eyes wet with tears. I reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. She squeezed back. "Your turn," she whispered.

As I stood up and made my way to the podium, I couldn't help but glance back at Emma's cousin once again. She had a hand on her husband's thigh, whispering something in his ear that made him shift uncomfortably. When she caught my eye, she winked and subtly arched her back, pushing her chest forward just enough to be noticeable to me but not obvious to anyone else. She crossed her legs slowly, the hem of her dress riding up just a fraction, revealing another inch of toned thigh.

I felt a flush of heat rise to my face—partly from anger, partly from an unwanted arousal that made me feel like the worst kind of traitor. This was my wife's funeral, for God's sake, and here I was getting turned on by her cousin. Except it was really Emma, fucking with me in the most inappropriate way possible.

I reached the podium and gripped its edges, steadying myself. The crowd fell completely silent, all eyes on me. I could see Ashley's encouraging smile, Robert's stoic nod, Margaret's tearful gaze. Behind them, rows of faces—some familiar, some not—all waiting for me to put my grief into words.

I took a deep breath, my mind completely blank. What could I possibly say? How could I eulogize a woman who wasn't really gone? How could I pretend to be a grieving widower when my wife was sitting right there, inhabiting another woman's body, acting like this was all some kind of joke?

I cleared my throat and looked out at the sea of expectant faces.

"Emma didn't fear ****," I finally said, my voice hoarse with emotion. I glanced briefly at Veronica and saw her smirking, her eyes locked on me. "She feared a lot of things, like spiders and clowns and that weird noise the fridge makes in the middle of the night, but never ****."

The audience gave a sympathetic chuckle at that, and I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders. I took a deep breath and continued.

"I, for once, fear ****. Fear it like hell. **** is final, inevitable. And when Emma died, I thought it was the end. I felt like... Like I died with her, in a way. I was... Dead inside, empty, lost. I didn't know how I could go on without her." I paused, my voice catching in my throat. I could feel the hot prickle of tears behind my eyes and I fought to keep them from falling. "I still don't know how I'll go on without her. Or maybe I don't know how to carry her with me." I looked down at the ground, collecting myself, then back up at the audience, back at Veronica, back at my wife. "She's still here, you know? With us. She'll always be with us. She might look different, sound different, act different, but she's still here." Veronica's smirk faltered at that. She shifted in her seat, her gaze suddenly uncertain. "She's in the way Ashley smiles, the way her parents laugh. She's in the memories that her friends share, the stories that they'll tell for years to come. And me? In whatever form she chooses to haunt me, I'm grateful for it. I'm grateful because, even though I can't explain why or how, my wife is still alive to me." I looked directly at Veronica, my eyes locking onto hers. "And that's all that matters, in the end."

The room was silent for a moment, and then someone—Ashley, I think—nodded. A few people murmured in agreement, and then the whole room. I barely paid attention to it. I was focused on Veronica. Her smirk was gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression. She met my gaze, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I nodded slightly, and she returned the gesture, a silent acknowledgment of our strange, impossible situation. A silent acknowledgment that we were both haunted by the same ghost, though in very different ways.

After my speech, others took their turn at the podium.

Robert and Margaret spoke together, holding each other up both literally and figuratively. Robert's deep voice rumbled about how proud he was of his daughter, while Margaret shared stories of Emma's stubborn determination, even as a child. "She never gave up on anything or anyone she believed in," Margaret said, looking directly at me. "Especially not the people she loved."

Soon enough, the casket was lowered into the ground, and we all gathered around to toss a handful of dirt onto the wood. I watched as the mound of earth grew, burying my wife's empty shell. The wind had died down, and the air was still and quiet, the only sound the soft thud of earth hitting wood and the few occasional birdsong in the trees. I didn't even know how to feel at this point. I was numb, detached from reality.

The ceremony droned on, a blur of ritual and reverence, the priest's voice a low, monotone hum in the background. As the final prayers were recited, and the mourners began to disperse, I found myself once again shaking hands, accepting hugs, and thanking people for coming. It felt easier now, somehow. The weight on my chest had lightened, if only a little. I caught Emma—it was getting harder to think of her as Veronica—looking at me from across the room several times. Her glances seemed warmer, more genuine, though she still played her part as the insufferable Veronica, whispering things to her equally insufferable husband that made him chuckle inappropriately.

"You did good, Calvin," came Ashley's voice as she appeared at my elbow. "Really good. That speech was…" She paused, searching for words, then settled on, "Emma would have loved it. She would have made fun of you for getting all poetic, but she would have loved it."

I managed a genuine smile. "Thanks, Ash."

"I mean it," she continued, her usual sarcasm softened by sincerity. "The way you talked about her living on in different forms—that was beautiful. Cheesy as hell, but beautiful."

Before I could respond, I noticed Emma approaching us. Ashley tensed beside me, clearly uneasy about interacting with her cousin.

"Ashley, darling," Emma said in Veronica's voice, but there was something different about her tone—less sharp around the edges. "That was a lovely tribute to your sister. She would have been touched."

Ashley blinked, clearly surprised by the uncharacteristic kindness. "Thanks, Veronica. That's… unexpectedly nice of you to say."

Emma shrugged. "Even I have my moments." She turned to me. "And you, Calvin. Who knew you had such poetry in you? It was quite moving."

"Thank you," I said simply, holding her gaze.

"Well," Ashley said, looking between us with slight confusion, "I should go check on Mom and Dad." She squeezed my arm. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

As Ashley walked away, Emma leaned in closer to me. "See?" she whispered. "I'm still here. Just in a slightly more… high-maintenance package."

"Well," I said, tensing slightly as I lowered my voice, "it only took me eulogizing you at your own funeral to get through Veronica's thick skin. Should I be flattered or concerned?"

Emma laughed—that high, tinkling laugh that was all Veronica. "Oh, Calvin, darling, don't be so dramatic. Veronica's just selective about who she shows her softer side to." She ran a manicured finger down the lapel of my suit. "Besides, you should see how I—I mean, how she—behaves at other funerals. This is positively restrained."

I felt my jaw clench. Just when I thought I was seeing more of Emma, Veronica came roaring back. "Right. Restrained. Is that what you call it?"

She must have noticed the shift in my tone because her eyes narrowed with a calculating gleam that made my skin crawl. She leaned in closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of expensive scent.

"You know," she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, "if you're so angry at Veronica, I'll be vaping behind the church in two minutes. Why don't you meet me there and teach me a lesson?"

"Jesus," I muttered under my breath.

She patted my cheek condescendingly. "Don't look so shocked, darling. It's just a thought." With that, she sauntered away, making sure to put an extra sway in her hips that I was certain was for my benefit.

I watched her go, feeling a storm of emotions raging inside me. Anger, confusion, and underneath it all, an undeniable current of desire that made me feel sick with myself. On one hand, the idea of following Veronica—of all people—behind a church for a quickie right now, of all moments, felt beyond reprehensible. On the other hand, it wasn't really Veronica, was it? It was Emma. My Emma, trapped in the body of a woman I couldn't stand.

The thought of putting Veronica in her place, of somehow spanking Emma back into reality, sent a shameful thrill through me. Would it help? Would a physical connection strengthen Emma's hold on Veronica's consciousness, the way it had with Mandy? Or would it just be giving in to a twisted desire I didn't want to acknowledge?

I loosened my tie slightly, suddenly feeling too warm. Two minutes, she had said. Two minutes until she'd be waiting, expecting me to either follow through or chicken out. Either way, I knew she'd have something to say about it.

God help me, I was actually considering it.

I found Emma exactly where she said she'd be—behind the church, leaning against the brick wall, a thin stream of vapor escaping her lips as she exhaled. She was partially hidden by a large dumpster, the irony of which wasn't lost on me. Veronica's designer heels clicked against the pavement as she straightened up at the sight of me.

"Well, well," she said, her red lips curving into a smile that was pure predator. "I wasn't sure you'd come. How deliciously naughty of you, Calvin."

I kept my distance, hands in my pockets. "I just wanted to talk."

She laughed, taking another drag from her vape pen before tucking it into her purse. "Talk? Is that what we're calling it now?" She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming. "God, I've never been this horny in my entire life—well, Veronica's life, anyway. It's strange. No matter what body I'm in, I want you so badly it hurts."

The crude words coming from Veronica's mouth sent an unwanted jolt of heat through me.

"You can have me right here," she continued, running her hands down her sides, emphasizing the curves of her body. "Veronica the bitch, freely available for whatever you want." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "My mouth, my pussy, my ass—take your pick. I've been working this body hard at the gym, you know. It would be a shame for you to pass on this opportunity."

I felt my face flush with anger and arousal in equal measure. "You could possess any other woman," I said through gritted teeth. "Any other woman would be a more pleasant partner than Veronica."

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the brick walls. "Oh, please. Don't try to bluff me, Calvin. I know you too well." She closed the distance between us, pressing her body against mine. I could feel the heat of her through our clothes. "I can see it in your eyes. You're dying to push me against this wall and fuck me raw. Teach the bitch a good lesson, right?"

Her hand found its way to my crotch, confirming what she already knew. "Go ahead," she whispered, her breath hot against my ear. "I'm on the pill."

Something snapped inside me. All the confusion, grief, and anger of the past few days crystallized into a single, burning need. I grabbed Veronica by her shoulders and spun her around, shoving her roughly against the brick wall. She gasped—a sound of surprise mixed with excitement—as I pinned her there with my body.

"Is this what you want?" I growled, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "You want me to hate-fuck you at my wife's funeral?"

She laughed, that infuriating Veronica laugh. "Your wife is right here, darling. And yes, that's exactly what I want."

I silenced her with a bruising kiss, my hands already pushing up the hem of her expensive black dress. She wore silk underwear—of course she did—which I yanked down with enough **** that I heard the delicate fabric tear. She moaned against my mouth, her hands fumbling with my belt.

"Hurry," she whispered, her voice husky with need. "Someone might come looking for us."

The thought should have stopped me cold, but instead it only fueled the fire. I freed myself from my pants and hoisted her up, her back scraping against the rough brick as she wrapped her legs around my waist. Without preamble, I thrust into her, earning a shocked gasp that quickly morphed into a moan.

"Oh god, Calvin," she cried out, her head falling back against the wall. "Yes, fuck me like you hate me."

And I did. I pounded into her with all the rage and confusion and twisted desire I'd been suppressing. Each thrust was punishment—for her taking Veronica's body, for her acting like this was all some game, for making me want her despite everything. Her moans grew louder, echoing in the small space between the building and the dumpster.

"Shut the fuck up," I hissed, clamping my hand over her mouth. "You want everyone to hear you? To come see Veronica getting fucked behind a church?"

Her eyes widened above my hand, but I could feel her smile against my palm. She was enjoying this—the danger, the degradation, all of it. And God help me, so was I. I hated myself for it, hated her for bringing me to this point, but I couldn't stop.

Veronica's body responded to every thrust, her inner muscles clenching around me, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my shoulders through my suit jacket. I could feel her building toward climax, her breathing becoming more ragged against my hand.

"You're not coming until I say so," I growled, slowing my pace deliberately. "You don't get to enjoy this that much."

She whimpered in protest, trying to move her hips to increase the friction, but I held her firmly in place. I removed my hand from her mouth just long enough to hear her beg.

"Please, Calvin," she gasped. "Please let me come. I need it."

"Who are you?" I demanded, still moving torturously slow inside her.

"I'm Emma," she whispered, her eyes locking with mine. "I'm your wife."

Something about hearing those words from Veronica's mouth pushed me over the edge. I resumed my punishing pace, driving into her with renewed vigor. She came almost immediately, her body convulsing around me, her scream muffled by my hand clamped firmly over her mouth again. I followed seconds later, emptying myself inside her with a guttural groan, hatred and pleasure washing over me in equal measure.

I sagged against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps as the reality of what we'd just done crashed over me. My wife's funeral. Behind the church. With her cousin's body. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with me? And yet, I couldn't deny the relief flooding through me—not just physical release, but something deeper. Some primal part of me had needed this, needed to reclaim Emma in whatever form she took.

Veronica—Emma—stood shakily, adjusting her torn underwear and smoothing down her dress. Her carefully styled hair was now a mess, makeup smudged, lipstick all but gone. My release trickled down her inner thigh, and she made a half-hearted attempt to clean herself with a tissue from her purse.

"Shit," she muttered, her voice sounding different somehow. "This dress costs more than your monthly mortgage payment."

I tucked myself away and zipped up my pants, shame and satisfaction warring within me. When I looked up at her face, I noticed something had changed in her eyes. The cold, calculating gleam that was pure Veronica had softened, replaced by something warmer, more familiar. More Emma.

"Calvin, I…" she started, then paused, running a hand through her disheveled hair. "I'm sorry. This was stupid. So fucking stupid." She shook her head. "Taking over Veronica of all people. What was I thinking?"

I stared at her, taken aback by the sudden shift. "Emma?" Was she more herself again?

"When I was Mandy, I didn't realize how much of a bitch Veronica actually was," she continued, leaning against the wall for support. "My memories of her were intact, but Mandy had no emotional response to seeing her. It was just… information. But being inside her head…" She shuddered. "It's like swimming in toxic waste."

"You sound different," I said cautiously. "More like yourself."

She looked down at her hands—Veronica's hands—with disgust. "I feel more like myself. Less… Veronica." She looked up at me, her eyes wide with realization. "It's the sex, isn't it? Just like with Mandy. Having sex with you brings me back, makes me stronger than the host."

I nodded slowly. "Seems that way. You were acting like a complete bitch before."

"I know," she said, genuine remorse in her voice. "And the worst part is, I was enjoying it. Veronica gets off on being cruel. It's like a ****." She reached out and touched my face gently. "I'm so sorry, Calvin. For all of this. For making you fuck me at my own funeral, for Christ's sake."

"It's not entirely your fault," I admitted. "I could have said no."

She gave a small, sad laugh. "But you didn't. And I'm glad you didn't." She gestured to herself. "This is helping. I'm stronger now. More me."

I straightened my tie, trying to make myself presentable again. "So sex with me is really like an anchor? It helps you stay you, no matter whose body you're in?"

"Seems that way," she said, attempting to fix her makeup using her phone's camera. "God, we look like we just had sex behind a dumpster."

"We did just have sex behind a dumpster."

"Fair point." She sighed, giving up on her appearance.

Emma did her best to make herself presentable, using a compact mirror from Veronica's purse to fix her smudged makeup. Her hands moved with Veronica's practiced efficiency, but there was a gentleness to her movements now, less of the sharp, aggressive energy that had dominated her earlier.

"How do I look?" she asked, smoothing down her dress.

"Like someone who just had rough sex behind a funeral home, but trying really hard to hide it," I answered honestly.

She laughed—a sound that was somewhere between Veronica's tinkling fake laugh and Emma's genuine one. "Well, it'll have to do." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We need to figure out what happens next. I can't stay in Veronica forever."

"Where's Mandy?" I asked. "Could you go back to her?"

Emma shook her head. "Probably long gone by now. You should have seen her at the coffee shop after we switched—completely freaked out. Poor thing looked like she'd just woken up from a nightmare." She frowned. "I feel bad about that. She didn't ask for any of this."

I glanced toward the funeral home. "What about someone else here? Someone who wouldn't be missed for a while? At least for as long as it takes us to find someone else out there?"

"Like who? A friend? Family?" She shuddered. "I don't think I can do that, Calvin. One good thing about Veronica is she doesn't give a shit about my ****. She's just here because it's the socially expected thing to do." She gestured toward the building. "Everyone else in there is grieving me. I'm not ready to feel that—to grieve myself through someone else's emotions. It would be too much."

I nodded, understanding. The psychological implications of inhabiting someone who was actively mourning you were disturbing to contemplate.

"We'll figure something out," I said, checking my watch. "But we should do it quickly, before you start feeling more like Veronica again."

"God, please don't let that happen." She shuddered. "Being Veronica is like having your brain marinated in entitlement and spite. The longer I'm in here, the harder it is to remember who I really am."

We made our way back to the cemetery, trying to look casual. I noticed Ashley watching us, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in Veronica's disheveled appearance and the fact that we'd both been absent at the same time. She didn't say anything, but the knowing look on her face made my stomach twist with guilt. How much did she suspect?

The service ended without further drama, and the guests began to disperse. Emma and I stuck around to mingle, both of us **** for some kind of solution. We needed a host who had no link to Emma and no one would miss for at least long enough to get back home.

"What's up with you and Veronica?" Ashley whispered to me as she passed by. "You two seem awfully chummy all of a sudden."

"She... asked about Emma's will," I lied smoothly. "Wanted to know if she'd been left anything."

"Typical." Ashley rolled her eyes, though she still seemed skeptical. "Did you tell her she's in line for a lifetime supply of free Botox and fake tits?"

"Something like that..." I trailed off, catching sight of the priest who'd presided over the ceremony. He was packing up his things, helped by a young woman in a simple black dress. "Excuse me for a sec," I said to Ashley, already moving toward the duo.

They watched me approach with polite smiles, the young woman standing slightly behind the priest, fiddling with her cross necklace.

"Hi, thank you so much for the service," I said, shaking the priest's hand. "It was lovely. Very... touching."

"Thank you, son," the priest said with a benevolent smile.

I stared at the nun, my mind racing. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," I said, holding out my hand to her.

"Sister Margaret," she replied quietly, taking my hand in a firm shake.

"Sister Margaret, lovely." I glanced around, trying to look nonchalant. "Would you mind me introducing you to my wife's cousin? She... she keeps talking about wanting to get closer to God, but I think she's too afraid to ask." I lowered my voice, leaning in closer.

The priest and Sister Margaret exchanged glances. The poor girl, in her twenties, was pretty, in a quiet, innocent way. Her blonde hair was tucked neatly under her veil, and her blue eyes were wide and trusting. She seemed particularly uneasy in her conservative black dress. "I'd be happy to talk to her," the priest said. "Where is she?"

"Oh, no need to bother yourself, Father. I think a woman's touch might work better with this one." I gave Sister Margaret an encouraging smile. "If you could spare five minutes, Sister?"

She hesitated, glancing at the priest for permission, which he granted with a nod.

"I'd be honored to help," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

"Wonderful." I led her away, searching for Emma. I spotted her across the cemetery, chatting with a group of well-wishers. "There she is."

I approached, Sister Margaret in tow, and tapped Emma on the shoulder. She turned around, her face lighting up with a false smile when she saw the nun. It seemed to take all of her self-control to keep her eyes from rolling out of her head. "Calvin! How lovely! What's this?"

"I wanted to introduce you to Sister Margaret," I said, nudging the shy nun forward. "She wanted to talk to you about... about getting closer to God. I know it's something you've been thinking about a lot lately."

"Of course," Emma said with a tight smile, keeping her hands folded in front of her. It was pretty obvious that my wife, as Veronica, found the idea of becoming a nun laughable. I had to elbow her slightly to get her to shake the nun's hand. She extended her arm stiffly, giving the sister a limp handshake.

For a moment, the two women stared at each other, the tension thick between them. Then, Sister Margaret blinked and straightened her shoulders, her expression changing slightly, blushing. In the meantime, Veronica's eyes widened. She looked around in confusion, her gaze finally settling on her hands, still encased in the nun's. She let go of the nun's hands as if they were on fire and stumbled backward a few steps.

"What on earth?" Veronica mumbled, her voice shaky. Veronica's relatives and friends looked over, some of them clearly concerned about her sudden change in demeanor. Veronica didn't seem to be one to show uncertainty or weakness. Obviously aware that she was being watched, she quickly regained her composure, flashing her usual, plastic smile.

"Everything alright, dear?" asked an elderly man, who I recognized as her father.

"Perfectly fine, Daddy," she said smoothly, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. "Erm... I'm sorry," she told the nun. "You were saying?" She clearly had no idea what she was doing here, but her pride wouldn't allow her to show it.

Sister Margaret, meanwhile, had been staring at Veronica, her blush deepening. "Oh, yes. I just wanted to tell you that..." She was stammering, looking around her, and fiddling with her dress. She kept stealing glances at me, her blush intensifying every time our eyes met. "Nothing important... Sorry for bothering you..."

"I'll accompany the sister back to the priest," I said to all present. "Please, enjoy the refreshments." And then, in a whisper, I said to the nun, "Come with me."

We walked a few steps away, out of earshot. "Are you..." I asked the sister, who was now trailing behind me.

"Emma? Yes, it's me," the sister mumbled. Her voice was barely audible. It seemed like she was even shyer than before.

"How do you feel?" I asked, looking over my shoulder.

"A bit... disgusted?" the sister said, clearly struggling to find the right word. "Disappointed, maybe?" She shuddered, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as we walked.

"About us...? Behind the church?"

She bit her lower lip, her cheeks now bright red. "No... I mean yes... But I was thinking about being Veronica... What a..."

"Bitch?" I offered.

"Horrible person," she corrected me, frowning slightly at my word choice. She turned to look at the priest, standing a few dozen yards away, conflicting emotions playing across her face. "Calvin, I... I know we planned for me to leave with you but..."

"But?"

She sighed, her breath shaky. "Would you mind waiting for a few minutes? I promised Father O'Brien that I'd help him pack up and get everything back to the parish."

"How long is a few more minutes? Can't you find an excuse to leave early," I asked, uneasy with the idea of letting her out of my sight.

"It's just that... I feel like I have a duty here," she said, looking down at her feet. "And to... God?" She looked at her hands as if they weren't her own. "I don't know how to explain."

I sighed. "Right. You're a nun now. Should have seen that coming." I shook my head, frustrated. "Alright, you help Father..."

"O'Brien..."

"O'Brien," I repeated. "You help him pack and load his car, then meet me at mine. Promise?"

"I promise," the sister said, her smile beatific. She gave me a little wave before hurrying back toward the priest. Fuck, I thought to myself, watching her go. A nun. Of all the people I could have chosen, why the hell did I pick a nun?

---

Hey there! This was chapter 4 out of 28. I will post two to three chapters a week.

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