The Return Of the CEO's Daughter

Rain fell in sharp, cold needles through the black, thin dress of Kiran Coach that soaked through her as she held onto the edge of the casket of her father. She couldn’t tell if the faces swimming in the blurred world around her were like an old black and white photo or if the sounds of the downpour made their whispers seem distorted. She felt distant, drifting slightly above the scene, as though blown upon just another restless current. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The unshakeable pillar of their family was her father, who went too soon. She could still hear his voice in her head, steady and reassuring: *You’ll be fine, Kiran. You’re stronger than you realize.* Except now, standing here, shivering and swimming under the weight of his absence, she didn't feel strong. Someone murmured behind her, loud enough to be heard over the patter of rain, “Isn’t it strange that her father’s empire crumbled so suddenly?” She’s the one left holding the blame." Kiran's knuckles grew white against the polished wood of the casket; she stiffened. She didn’t need to turn around to know the voice—Camilla Harcourt, her stepsister and self-appointed harbinger of destruction. Camilla continued in the same silk-wrapped dagger tone. “She’s probably hoping someone will feel sorry for her." The pastor’s voice droned solemn and rhythmic, but his words didn’t register. The death of her father should have been the day's greatest tragedy, but Camilla had made sure the whispers would focus on a different issue: the missing charity funds. And then there came the tale of the Harcourt family’s pristine reputation tarnished almost overnight, and instead of the blame falling on Kiran’s closest acquaintance, it was pinned firmly on her for 'some reason' she had not specified. Eleanor Harcourt added: ‘She had access to everything.’ “Why didn’t we notice sooner?” But Kiran’s grip tightened, her nails digging into the casket slow enough for audible cracks to sound. The final hollow sound of dirt hitting wood snapped her back into the moment. Every shred of stability she’d once known was descending with the coffin. For a moment, anger surfaced, hot and unwelcome. She wanted to turn around, to face the crowd of smug faces and self-righteous whispers, to *scream* that she wasn’t the villain in their story. But she didn’t. Years spent with the Harcourts had taught her one thing: words were weapons, and they were good at using them, whereas she wasn't. She stared at the muddy ground, the rain soaking through her stockings instead. Umbrellas bobbed and swayed, black flowers in a grey sea around her. She whispered, What would you have done? The words were stolen by the wind, so no one could see her question. The funeral had ended, and the crowd started to walk away, their state of pretended mourning replaced with relief by the fact that things were over formally. The The ground beneath her held some answers, and she remained motionless for a brief moment. “Kiran.” Camilla's voice pierced through the rain like a sharp blade. Her carefully blank expression turned toward the man as her chest thumped heavily. Her flawless makeup protected by an umbrella, she stood a few feet away. Soon enough, Camilla smirked, “We’ll be hearing from the lawyers.” “You understand, of course. We can’t let... a thief tarnish Father’s legacy any more." Her words were clear, but Kiran’s voice trembled. “I didn’t take anything,” you know." ‘Prove it,’ said Camilla, and she dismissed herself and her heels to click against the wet pavement. Without the crowd, the world was quieter, but the silence wasn’t comforting. The 'weight', so to speak, felt like a heavy blanket, suffocating and cold. She looked around and, with bitter clarity, realised that there was no one left standing beside her. No one had come to her defence. The rain grew heavier, and with a heavy sigh, she turned to leave. Wetting the grass, each step felt more of a strain than the step before. In the background, Harcourt estate loomed, its grand façade taunting her, reminding her of the kinds of things you don’t get once you are no longer a part of life. Her hand lay on the wrought iron at the gates where she paused. She thought for a moment that she would go back in, would demand an explanation—would demand justice. She remembered Camilla’s smirk, Eleanor’s icy glare, and the whispers of the guests... but then. This wasn’t her home anymore. A labyrinth of towering skyscrapers and shadowed alleyways stretched before the city of Astralis. The rain plastered her hair to her face and soaked through the clothes she wore—she had walked aimlessly. Still, its warm weight was a marshmallow's small comfort, the pendant around her neck. It grew cold against her skin. The rain turned into a light drizzle by the time she made it to the city center. Before a café, she stopped and stared her reflection in the window. Her eyes were hollow and rimmed with dark circles; her pale face looked unfamiliar. She muttered to herself, “You look terrible." She was startled by a sharp knock on the glass. The barista inside motioned her along, pity and impatience mixed in her expression. Kiran backed away, saying, "Right." Her stomach growled, painfully reminding her that she hadn’t eaten in two days. Her fingers brushed against the few crumpled bills she had left in her pocket. It was enough for a meal, maybe, but not much else. “Excuse me, miss." She glanced around only to find an older man in a suit and tie, wrinkled and skew with the outfit. His expression was apologetic; he looked out of place amongst the busy crowd. He asked, “You’re Kiran Coach, aren’t you?" Still though, she hesitated—whether to confirm or deny it, she wasn’t certain. He continued, his voice laced with real sadness, “I worked with your father.” I just wanted to say he was a good man. ‘Whatever this mess is with the charity, I know he wouldn’t want you to give up.’” Quietly, Kiran said thank you. With a nod, his gaze lingered for a second before he entered the crowd. She watched the city move around her and stayed there for a while. Plenty of cars splashed through puddles, people scurried past under umbrellas, and there was the faint hum of traffic. It was aimless when she finally moved, her feet taking her through streets she didn’t know. It wasn’t until she was standing in front of it that she paid any mind to the diner, its windows casting warm like warmth upon the sidewalk. Somehow the humming conversation and the clatter of dishes sounded inviting. Her stomach growled again, louder. The door swung open before she could decide whether to go in, and a woman stepped out. She was short and plump, with greying hair pulled into a bun and a no-nonsense expression. The woman asked, “You planning to stand there all night?" Kiran stammered, ‘I—no, I was just—' The woman looked at her for a moment, then sighed. You haven’t had a decent meal in days, you look like shit.” Come inside. “I’m not running a charity, but I’m not heartless either,” I said. Kiran felt a surge of warmth as she entered the diner. However, it stifled the senses with the smell of grease and coffee, and her mouth watered at it. The woman pointed to a booth and said, “Sit there." Her wet clothes stuck to the vinyl as Kiran slid into the seat. “What’s your name?" "Kiran." “Well, Kiran, I’m Mabel. “You look like you’ve been through hell.” Kiran managed a weak smile. “That’s one way to put it." A moment later, Mabel brought back a cup of tea and a plate of toast. “Eat. “We’ll figure out the rest later,” he said. It was the best thing Kiran had tasted in days—hot tea and dry toast—but it was the best thing Kiran had tasted in days. She let herself breathe for the first time in what seemed like forever. For now, the storm that was raging outside had stopped, but she could still feel it.