The Billionaire's Dead Wife Returns

Chapter 6:The Funeral

Grey clouds hung low over London, the kind of heavy autumn sky that promised rain and delivered it without mercy. By nine o'clock, mourners began gathering outside St. Luke's Church in Kensington. Black umbrellas bloomed across the pavement like dark flowers. Fresh white lilies lined the entrance, their petals already damp and trembling in the wind. The distant tolling of church bells mixed with the low murmur of voices and the occasional click of camera shutters from the media crews kept behind police barriers.

The rain fell steadily, a soft percussion against umbrellas and coats. Television vans lined the street, reporters speaking in hushed, respectful tones into microphones. "Today, London says goodbye to Aria Morgan Blackwood..." one broadcast carried on the wind. Police officers stood firm, ensuring the private grief of the service remained protected from the public spectacle.

Inside the church, the atmosphere was hushed and reverent. Tall candles flickered along the aisle, casting warm, dancing light against ancient stone walls. At the front, beside a simple oak coffin draped in white flowers, stood a large portrait of Aria. It was not a formal studio shot. The photograph captured her mid-laughter in the gardens of Blackwood Manor, her dark hair catching the sunlight, eyes bright with genuine joy. It reminded everyone present of the woman she had been-warm, kind, full of quiet life-rather than the tabloid figure she had become in her final days.

Guests filled the pews: close friends, Blackwood employees, a few distant family members, and members of London's business circles. The air smelled of lilies, polished wood, and rain-soaked wool. Soft organ music played as people took their seats, exchanging subdued greetings and shared looks of disbelief.

Mia Carter sat near the front, her eyes already red. She clutched a folded piece of paper, her eulogy, hands trembling slightly. Daniel Brooks stood respectfully near the back with other Blackwood staff, his usual composure cracked by genuine sorrow.

Ethan Blackwood arrived last. He moved like a shadow in his black suit, face pale and drawn. He had barely slept in the days since the accident. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He spoke to no one, offering only brief nods when necessary. He took his place beside the coffin, gaze fixed forward. To the congregation, his silence appeared cold, the detachment of a powerful man who had already moved on. In truth, it was all he could do to remain standing. Inside the inner pocket of his jacket, the ultrasound photographs rested against his heart. He reached for them twice during the wait, fingers brushing the edge of the envelope, but he never drew them out.

The service began quietly. The vicar spoke of life's fragility and the comfort of faith, but it was the personal tributes that painted the fullest picture of Aria.

One friend, a woman Aria had known since university, stood shakily. "Aria paid for my niece's medical treatment anonymously when we were struggling. She never wanted credit. She just said everyone deserved a chance to heal."

Another recalled, "She never forgot a birthday. Even when Ethan's schedule was madness, Aria would send a note or a small gift. She made people feel seen."

A longtime Blackwood employee, an older woman who worked in administration, spoke with a trembling voice. "Blackwood Manor never felt intimidating because of her. She greeted every member of staff by name. Asked about our families. She made that big house feel like a home."

These stories wove through the church, reminding everyone that Aria Morgan Blackwood had been far more than a billionaire's wife. She had been kind in a world that often rewarded sharpness, present in moments others overlooked.

Mia Carter rose to deliver her eulogy. She approached the lectern slowly, gripping the edges for support.

"Aria found beauty in ordinary moments," Mia began, her voice steady but soft. "A perfect cup of tea on a rainy day. The way sunlight hit the Thames at dusk. She believed people deserved second chances-even when they didn't ask for them. She loved deeply, quietly, and without conditions. I keep thinking about how she would tell me that life was too short for grudges. That love was worth fighting for." Mia's gaze drifted briefly toward Ethan. "She believed in us. In all of us. I hope... I hope she knows how much she was loved."

The words lingered, simple and heartfelt, carrying an unintended weight for the man sitting rigidly beside the coffin.

Ethan remained motionless throughout. When it was time for him to speak, he stood but said nothing. He simply placed a single white lily on the coffin, his hand lingering for a long moment. The silence from him spoke volumes to those watching-some saw regret, others detachment. Only he knew the depth of the storm inside.

The service concluded with a final hymn. The coffin was carried out into the rain as the bells tolled once more.

---

The procession to Highgate Cemetery moved slowly through the wet streets. Ancient trees dripped steadily as mourners gathered around the open grave. The burial itself was quiet and private. No additional speeches. Only the soft patter of rain on umbrellas and the vicar's gentle words commending Aria to rest.

One by one, guests offered their condolences to Ethan and then departed, leaving him standing alone beside the grave as the rain intensified. He remained long after the others had gone, the umbrella forgotten in his hand. Water streamed down his face, mixing with silent tears.

He looked at the fresh earth and whispered, voice raw and barely audible.

"I'm sorry."

"I should have listened."

"I should have come home."

The words were simple, broken. He did not explain the accusations, the merger, or the silence that had grown between them. There was only regret, heavy and unrelenting. He touched the pocket holding the ultrasound photographs once more before turning away.

---

Blackwood Manor felt like a museum of a life interrupted when Ethan returned that afternoon. Nothing had been touched. The fairy lights on the terrace switched on automatically as dusk fell, their soft glow illuminating wilted white roses and melted candle stubs in glass lanterns. The dining table remained set for two, silverware dulled by time. The collapsed chocolate espresso cake still sat on the floor, now hardened and forgotten. Aria's emerald evening shawl hung over the back of a chair in the sitting room. Her favourite mug sat beside the coffee machine, a faint lipstick mark still visible on the rim.

Ethan walked through every room slowly, as if searching for her ghost. He trailed his fingers over surfaces she had touched. In the bedroom, her pillow still held the faint scent of her shampoo. In the study, a half-read book lay open on her side of the sofa.

Eventually, he stepped onto the terrace. The thirty-seven anniversary letters hung exactly where Aria had placed them, protected somewhat by the pergola. The silk ribbon was damp from the rain. He untied the bundle with careful hands and carried them inside.

He sat on the sofa and began reading.

The first letter: *Month One: Thank you for making tea when I had the flu. You burned the toast but I didn't care. You were there.*

The seventh: *I love watching you read at night. You pretend not to notice me staring, but I see the smile you try to hide.*

The nineteenth: *Last night we danced in the kitchen while dinner burned. I'd burn a thousand dinners for more nights like that.*

Each letter revealed the quiet architecture of their love-small, everyday moments he had overlooked in the rush of ambition and later suspicion. The weight of what he had thrown away pressed heavier with every page.

He reached the final, unopened envelope. Across the front, in Aria's elegant handwriting: *For the future we're going to build together.*

Ethan's breath caught. He pressed the letter against his chest, unable to open it. The pain was too raw, too complete. For the first time, he truly understood the depth of what he had lost. Not just a wife, but the woman who had loved him in the smallest, most meaningful ways.

---

Later that evening, Daniel Brooks arrived quietly at the manor. He found Ethan still sitting with the letters spread around him.

"Sir," Daniel said gently, "I've taken the liberty of cancelling next week's board meetings. The Sterling team can wait."

Ethan looked up, eyes hollow but clear. "Everything can wait."

Daniel paused, visibly surprised. In all the years he had served Ethan Blackwood, he had never heard those words. He nodded once and left the man to his grief.

---

Far from the rain and the graveside flowers, in the undisclosed private medical facility, the atmosphere remained one of sterile vigilance. Advanced monitors hummed softly around the bed where Aria lay unconscious. Bandages covered much of her body. Machines tracked her vital signs and the fragile heartbeats of the twins she carried-now approximately eight weeks and several days along.

The older businessman visited daily. He stood at the observation window as doctors updated him.

"The surgery was successful, but her injuries were extensive," one specialist explained. "We're keeping her in a medically induced coma to give her body time to heal. The pregnancy remains extremely fragile, but the twins are holding on for now."

The businessman nodded. "Spare no expense. Whatever they need."

Later, in a secure corridor, he spoke privately with his chief of security.

"No one can know she's here," he instructed.

The security chief hesitated. "Not even her husband?"

The businessman paused, his expression darkening with unspoken history. "Especially not him."

---

Late that night, a nurse gently adjusted the blanket around Aria's still form. The room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of monitors. As the nurse turned to leave, Aria's fingers twitched-just slightly, a faint movement against the sheets.

The nurse froze, staring.

Before she could call for the doctor, the chapter of public mourning continued elsewhere, while here, in secrecy, the first fragile sign of life stirred.