Grandpa's Funeral Reduced to Her Dog's Show

My grandfather died on a covert mission, and authorities approved a grand funeral in his honor.

Concerned about my grief, my fiancé offered to handle the arrangements.

On the day of the funeral, I arrived with my grandfather's ashes, only to find his portrait discarded on the ground, replaced by one of a dog.

Furious, I tried to remove it, but my fiancé's adopted sister stopped me. "Hands off that portrait!"

Suppressing my fury, I countered, "This is my grandfather's funeral. He was a decorated hero."

"So what?" She shrugged, sneering, "Isaac said Luck deserves the grandest send-off. If you've got a problem, take it up with him. Adoring me, he'd cancel your engagement and ditch you in a heartbeat."

I laughed incredulously, calling Isaac's family. "You people begged for this engagement. Since when does your adopted daughter get to call it off?"

Footsteps thundered behind me, louder than the voice on the phone.

Isaac's parents, Ted and Leah Whitaker, snatched my phone and smashed it on the ground, their faces twisted with arrogance.

"You're just an orphan, and you think you can lecture my daughter?" Ted barked. "Your engagement to Isaac is set in stone, and my grandpa, Cuthbert's inheritance belongs to us now. Cross Joyce again, and you can kiss your title goodbye."

I stared at my shattered phone and their smug expressions. The groveling humility they'd shown Cuthbert when begging for our engagement was gone.

I clutched the urn, feeling utterly disappointed. "Cuthbert saved your failing empire. Is this how you repay him?"

Joyce Whitaker clicked her tongue and spat at the urn. "A crippled old man who clung to life too long. Why waste money on his funeral? Luck died saving me. He deserves this grand ceremony. Besides, you're depending on us now, and I'm just saving us some cash."

Cuthbert lost the use of his left leg years ago on a mission. It was a badge of honor for defending our country. No one had the right to mock him.

My nails dug into my palms as I glared at the dog's portrait defiling the funeral altar.

"Is this Isaac's idea?" I asked, barely containing my rage.

Joyce smirked, hands on her hips. "He said I can do whatever makes me happy. What, you're gonna tattle? Even if he were here, he'd back me up. Piss me off, and you'll be out on the street."

She stood there, gloating, as her parents draped Cuthbert's medal around the dog's neck, scratched out his name on the wreaths, and wrote "Luck" instead. They even performed a ritual, using a special offering sent by Cuthbert's admirers, to honor and bless the dog's soul.

"Our family rules this city," she bragged. "Even our dog gets a funeral this lavish. Mom and Dad, call some reporters tomorrow. Let's make our name shine."