Chapter 12
898 Words
Sienna’s POV
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Planning a second funeral for Eleanor was exactly as ridiculous, frustrating, and exhausting as it sounded.
Especially since I had to do it with Leo.
We’d spent the past week clashing over every detail. The guest list was a battlefield. The menu sparked a near-death experience. The seating arrangements? We might as well have been negotiating a peace treaty.
But now, with everything set, there was one last thing left to do.
The eulogy.
And neither of us wanted to touch it.
That’s how I found myself wandering outside to clear my mind and spotting Leo on the stone terrace, a glass of whiskey in hand.
I should have just turned back. Gone to bed.
But something about the way he sat there—silent, shoulders slightly hunched—made me pause.
He must have sensed me. Without turning, he gestured toward the half-empty bottle beside him.
“Sit,” he murmured. “Have a drink.”
For once, I didn’t argue.
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Memories That Won’t Die
For a moment, we just sat in silence.
Then, Leo sighed, swirling his glass. “So, the eulogy.”
I groaned. “I was hoping you’d forget.”
He huffed a small laugh, tilting his head back. “Not a chance. Eleanor would haunt us if we half-assed this.”
He wasn’t wrong.
I exhaled, looking out at the vineyard stretching into the dark. “Where do we even start?”
“With something honest,” Leo said.
Honest.
That was easier said than done.
There was no single way to describe Eleanor. No one version of her.
So, instead, we started with memories.
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“You remember how she used to introduce herself as a duchess?” Leo asked suddenly.
I snorted. “God, yes. ‘Duchess Eleanor of Marseille.’”
Leo smirked. “She had zero French blood.”
“She didn’t care,” I said, grinning. “And people believed her! I saw a whole article in Vanity Fair once, listing her among ‘Europe’s Last Hidden Aristocrats.’”
Leo laughed, shaking his head. “She once convinced a billionaire to kneel and kiss her hand because ‘it was tradition in her family.’”
I laughed so hard I had to set my glass down.
But then the laughter faded, and something softer settled between us.
“She was a liar,” Leo said quietly. “But she was also magic.”
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Some memories were wild.
Like the time Eleanor crashed a wedding she wasn’t invited to, claiming she was the bride’s long-lost aunt—and actually made a toast.
Or the time she walked into a courtroom, acting as her own lawyer for a minor speeding ticket, and got the case dismissed by flirting with the judge.
“She said she’d been in love with him in a past life,” Leo recalled, shaking his head. “The poor bastard actually looked like he believed her.”
“She once told me she could tell the future,” I added. “I was fifteen, and she said I was destined to ‘command the world’s greatest kitchens.’”
Leo raised a brow. “And you did.”
I shrugged, suddenly feeling warm for a different reason.
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Some memories were softer.
Like how Eleanor would sit in the garden at sunrise, sipping her tea, humming an old song that no one could ever name.
“She taught me how to dance here,” I murmured.
Leo turned to me.
“I was sixteen. I had a crush on some guy and was terrified of embarrassing myself at prom. Eleanor found me practicing alone in the living room.” I swallowed, remembering the way she had laughed, twirled me around, and taken the lead.
“‘Dancing is just walking with flair, darling,’” Leo quoted, smiling.
I blinked at him. “She told you that too?”
Leo nodded. “She made me waltz with her every Sunday when I was fifteen because she said no ‘true gentleman’ should grow up without knowing how to lead.”
I chuckled. “She lied. She just wanted to dance.”
Leo huffed. “Yeah, I figured.”
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Some memories were painful.
Like the time she broke down in tears when she thought no one was watching—because an old friend she hadn’t spoken to in years had passed away.
“She told me once that she didn’t fear dying,” I admitted. “Just being forgotten.”
Leo stared into his glass. “She won’t be.”
“No,” I agreed. “She never will be.”
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A Different Kind of Goodbye
Somewhere between the laughter and the reminiscing, the bottle of whiskey got dangerously low.
Somewhere between the ridiculous and the heartbreaking, we had written Eleanor’s eulogy without even realizing it.
We would tell them who she was.
The liar. The dreamer. The impossible, untouchable storm of a woman who taught us how to be reckless and bold and how to survive even when the world tried to break us.
And sitting there, beneath the open sky, I realized something else.
Leo wasn’t just my enemy.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he was just a man who had loved Eleanor as much as I had.
And for the first time in a long time, we weren’t fighting.
We were remembering.
- Writer
