The Funeral
Rain slid like silver threads down the marble headstone, pooling in the fresh earth below. Umbrellas dotted the cemetery like black wings, shielding the city’s most powerful from the storm. They whispered in hushed tones, some in mourning, others already calculating what came next.
I stood at the center of it all, tall and immovable, my sharp jaw set like stone. In my tailored black suit, I looked every inch the billionaire heir controlled, cold, and untouchable. Not a tear touched my face. I would never give them that.
Condolences, Mr. Veyron, murmured a man from my father’s board, offering a hand that was more business than sympathy.
I didn’t take it. I barely heard it. My eyes were fixed on the casket as it lowered into the earth. Lionel Veyron. Titan. Tyrant. Father. Even dead, the man still cast a shadow so large that I could feel it pressing against his lungs.
Behind me, the paparazzi shouted through the gates, desperate for a shot of the billionaire heir who just became the most eligible bachelor in the country. The heirs of old money families whispered, women in designer coats dabbed fake tears, and rivals smiled thinly, already circling the empire like sharks smelling blood.
But among the sea of black and diamonds, I gaze, snagged on someone who didn’t belong.
She stood alone, without umbrella or mink coat, her dress simple and dark, her hair pulled back in a knot that dripped with rain. No pearls. No perfume. Just a woman at the edge of a world she clearly didn’t fit into.
Her chin was lifted, defiant despite the storm soaking her shoulders. And though her eyes never left me, she looked at me not with pity, not with greed, something sharper. Something that felt like a challenge.
I turned away. Whoever she was, she was irrelevant. Another opportunist, perhaps. Another face I had forgotten by morning.
Hours later, in the paneled quiet of my father’s lawyer’s office, I realized how wrong I had been.
The room smelled of leather and old money. The board members sat stiff in their seats, rivals pretending patience while waiting for the empire’s fate to be sealed. And then, as the lawyer cleared his throat, I saw her again.
The same woman. Sitting at the far corner of the room. Calm. Silent. Rain still clinging to the ends of her hair like diamonds.
My jaw tightened. What the hell was she doing here?
The lawyer adjusted his glasses and began reading. The words blurred together assets, percentages, properties until the final clause snapped the air like a whip.
“To my son, Alexander Veyron. You shall inherit Veyron Industries in its entirety under one condition. Within thirty days of my passing, you must marry Serena Vale.”
The silence was absolute. Then came the gasps. The whispers. The shifting of chairs as the weight of the words sank in.
I pulse thundered. I rose to my feet, my voice was a blade slicing the stillness.
This is a joke.
The lawyer shook his head gravely. It is legally binding.
Across the room, the woman Serena Vale finally lifted her head. Her eyes locked with mine, calm and unreadable, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all along.
And in that instant, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: my father wasn’t finished controlling me. Even from the grave.
