Chapter 13: The Funeral
1173 Words
Elara’s POV
I didn’t scream when I heard the news.
I didn’t collapse.
Didn’t cry.
Didn’t even ask questions.
I simply… went numb.
The words Marcus is dead echoed in my mind like a sentence spoken underwater—distant, muffled, unreal. I heard them, understood them, yet my body refused to react. It was as if my soul had stepped away, leaving my body behind to function on instinct alone.
Marcus was gone.
The same Marcus whose shadow had followed me for years.
The same Marcus whose voice still crept into my nightmares.
The same Marcus I feared more than anyone else in the world.
And yet… I never wished him dead.
Not once.
Hate, yes.
Fear, always.
But death?
No.
When Lucien told me how it happened—how Marcus had been tortured before he was killed—something inside me cracked. I expected relief. Closure. Some twisted sense of justice.
Instead, my chest tightened painfully.
The nightmares returned that very night.
They came without mercy.
I saw locked doors.
Felt hands grabbing my wrists.
Heard laughter echoing in empty rooms.
I woke up screaming more than once, drenched in sweat, my heart racing so hard I thought it might burst. Some nights I didn’t scream at all—I just lay there, shaking silently, staring at the ceiling until dawn.
My appetite vanished.
Food tasted like nothing.
Sleep felt unsafe.
Time blurred together.
Days passed, but I barely noticed.
Lucien noticed everything.
He noticed the way I stopped humming softly while walking through the halls.
The way I barely touched my meals.
The way my eyes no longer followed people when they spoke to me.
He started coming home early.
At first, I thought it was coincidence. Then I realized it wasn’t.
He would sit across from me in silence, pretending to work on his laptop while watching me through his peripheral vision. Sometimes he’d ask simple questions—Did you eat? Are you cold?—as if afraid that anything deeper might shatter me completely.
I wanted to tell him I was breaking.
But I didn’t know how.
I didn’t know how to explain that Marcus’s death hadn’t freed me—it had dragged everything I buried back to the surface. That knowing he had suffered terrified me almost as much as knowing he was gone.
I felt guilty.
And guilt is a heavy thing to carry when you’re already drowning.
The day of the funeral arrived too soon.
The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that threatened rain but never delivered it—like the world itself couldn’t decide how it felt about Marcus’s death.
Lucien never left my side.
He dressed me himself, choosing a simple black dress, buttoning the back carefully, his fingers never lingering too long. He handed me a coat, adjusted it around my shoulders, and when we stepped outside, he shielded me from the cold wind without saying a word.
The cemetery was crowded.
Too crowded.
Faces blurred together—relatives, acquaintances, business partners, people who came not to mourn but to observe. Whispers floated through the air, mixing with the sound of shuffling feet and quiet sobs.
I stood stiffly beside Lucien as condolences were exchanged.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“He was so young.”
“This must be difficult.”
Their words passed through me like smoke.
When it was time to approach the coffin, my legs nearly gave out.
Marcus lay there—still, pale, lifeless.
The man who once towered over me.
The man whose presence alone made my chest tighten.
Reduced to silence.
Even in death, he frightened me.
My hands began to shake uncontrollably.
I didn’t realize it until Lucien moved.
He took off his coat and gently wrapped it around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his chest. His body was warm, solid—real.
“Breathe,” he murmured so quietly only I could hear.
I leaned into him without thinking.
Just a little.
His arms came around me—protective, steady, unyielding.
And for the first time that day… I felt safe.
Not relieved.
Not healed.
But safe.
Hours later, when the ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse, exhaustion crashed over me like a wave. I barely remembered the drive back to the mansion.
Everything felt distant. Muted.
Until we walked inside.
The moment I saw Grandmother standing in the hallway, her eyes filled with concern, something inside me shifted.
She opened her arms immediately.
“My child,” she whispered, pulling me into a gentle embrace.
And for the first time in days, a small smile appeared on my face.
Real.
Unforced.
Lucien saw it.
And in that one fragile moment, he felt grateful—grateful that someone could still reach me when he didn’t know how.
Marcus’s POV
I know how this sounds.
But I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong.
I lied to my parents and told them I’d taken a leave from work.
They believed me without question.
Why wouldn’t they?
The truth was—I didn’t have a job.
I gambled.
I drank.
I partied.
Why work when money flowed easily?
Even if my father wasn’t the one who built the company, he still lived comfortably off the wealth his adopted brother and father created. And as his son, I benefited from that.
Life was easy.
Until the day I overheard them talking.
I wasn’t meant to hear it.
They were discussing my uncle’s death.
How it wasn’t an accident.
How they staged everything.
How carefully they planned it.
I froze.
My breath caught.
They noticed me standing there.
Their faces drained of color.
They begged.
Promised money.
Protection.
Silence.
They sent me abroad with more cash than I could spend in a lifetime.
Every week, more money arrived—payment for my silence.
And honestly?
I enjoyed it.
Living alone in a foreign country with unlimited money made me reckless. Clubbing turned into routine. Gambling turned into addiction. I stopped caring about consequences.
Until I lost everything.
When I demanded more money, my father snapped.
The company was drowning in debt.
There was no more to give.
He told me to find a job.
A job?
Me?
I laughed in his face.
So I borrowed money.
A lot of it.
From a man who always wore a mask.
He spoke calmly, politely—but something about him chilled me. I told myself I’d pay him back once things settled.
They didn’t.
The threats started.
Time ran out.
I flew back to Los Angeles with one plan—to steal from the company.
That’s when everything went wrong.
On my morning jog, a car sped toward me.
Pain exploded in my neck.
Darkness followed.
When I woke up, I was tied in an abandoned warehouse.
Three men stood before me.
And behind them… the masked man.
The torture wasn’t loud.
It was methodical.
Precise.
When the boss stepped forward with a gun, I finally understood.
I never mattered.
Bang.
And then… nothing.
- Writer
