The Funeral
1089 Words
MAYA
I hadn't seen Marcus in five years. I'd planned to keep it that way forever.
The lawyer's office smelled like leather and money, two things I'd forgotten existed. My shoes squeaked on the polished marble floor, announcing my poverty to everyone in the building. I'd worn my only dress, black and wrinkled from living in a trash bag. It had cost twelve dollars at Goodwill three years ago.
I didn't belong here.
The receptionist's eyes swept over me, cataloging everything wrong. My too-thin frame. My unwashed hair pulled into a bun. The way I clutched my purse like someone might steal it. She smiled anyway, the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Ms. Sullivan? Conference room B. Down the hall."
My legs felt like water. Five years ago, I'd told Marcus I never wanted to see him again. I'd screamed it, actually. Standing in his office, staring at the contracts spread across his desk, my hands shaking with rage.
"Sweatshops? Are you kidding me? These factories are using child labor, Marcus, Children."
"It's complicated, Maya."
"Complicated? You became everything we fought against! Everything Mom and Dad stood for, you threw away for what? Money? Power?"
His face had gone hard then, that wall slamming down between us.
"You don't understand how the world works."
"I understand just fine. You're a sellout. A hypocrite."
He'd looked at me for a long moment, something broken in his eyes. Then he'd said,
"Get out," and I had. I'd walked out of his office, out of his life, and I hadn't looked back.
Now he was dead and I was here, about to face whatever mess he'd left behind.
The funeral had been this morning. I'd stood in the back of the cathedral, hidden behind a column, watching from the shadows. The place had been packed with San Francisco's elite. Tech billionaires in thousand-dollar suits. Politicians, CEOs. People who'd never known what it felt like to eat condiment packets for lunch.
Reporters had swarmed the entrance, Cameras flashing. Questions shouted. Security guards everywhere, like Marcus was still important enough to protect even in death.
I'd felt like a ghost haunting my own family's funeral.
And then I'd seen him.
A man who didn't walk into a room so much as claimed it.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my yearly income. Dark hair styled perfectly., Jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
But it was his eyes that stopped me cold. Grey and dangerous, scanning the crowd like he was calculating threats.
Our eyes had met across the cathedral.
His had gone furious. Just for a second, something lethal flashed there, and I'd felt it like a physical blow. He didn't know who I was, but he hated me already, hated that I was there, in his space, disrupting whatever perfect image of grief he'd constructed.
I'd looked away first, Coward.
After the service, I'd tried to slip out unnoticed. A woman had stopped me near the door. Older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes and expensive pearls.
"You look just like her," she'd whispered.
"Like who?"
"Marcus's first love. Sarah." The woman's smile turned sad.
"Did you know he kept her picture hidden in his office for thirty years? In a locked drawer. He'd take it out sometimes when he thought no one was watching."
My throat had closed up. Mom. She was talking about my mom.
"He never stopped loving her," the woman continued.
"Even after she married your father. Even after she died. Some loves don't let go."
I'd fled after that, pushing through the crowd, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Now I stood outside conference room B, my hand on the door handle. Through the frosted glass, I could see shapes. Two people waiting inside. One was probably the lawyer.
The other...
I pushed open the door.
The man from the funeral stood by the window, his back to me. I recognized the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself like violence waiting to happen. He turned when I entered.
Those grey eyes locked onto mine, and this time, the fury wasn't hidden. It blazed there, hot and dangerous.
"Ms. Sullivan." The lawyer, Park, stood and gestured to a chair.
"Please, sit. We can begin now."
The man didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at me like I was an insult to his existence.
"This is Dominic Chen," Park said. "CEO of Chen Technologies.
And Dominic, this is Maya Sullivan. Marcus's niece."
Something flickered across Dominic's face. Shock, maybe or betrayal. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump.
"Niece," he repeated, his voice low and cold. "Marcus never mentioned a niece."
"He never mentioned a lot of things," I said before I could stop myself.
Park cleared his throat.
"Yes, well. Shall we begin?
I know this is difficult for both of you, but Marcus's will is quite specific.
" He opened a folder, pulled out documents. The funeral is over. Now we handle the legal matters."
My hands were shaking again. I tucked them under the table.
"Marcus Chen was a careful man," Park continued. "He spent the last months of his life updating his will, ensuring everything was in order. He knew exactly what he wanted." He looked at me, then at Dominic. "And what he wanted will surprise you both."
Dominic's fingers tapped against the table. Once, twice. A tell of barely controlled rage.
Park read through the standard legal language. Assets, holdings, properties. Numbers so big they stopped meaning anything. I couldn't focus. My vision kept blurring, my chest tight with anxiety.
Then Park's voice changed. Became careful.
"To my protégé, Dominic Chen, I leave forty-nine percent of Chen Technologies, the Presidio Heights property, and a personal trust of fifty million dollars. You've been the son I never had. I'm sorry for what I'm about to do to you."
Forty-nine percent? Not controlling interest.
My brain struggled to process what that meant.
Dominic's face had gone blank. Dangerous blank.
Park turned to me. His next words came out slow, deliberate, like he knew they were grenades.
"To my niece, Maya Rose Sullivan, I leave controlling interest, fifty-one percent of Chen Technologies."
The room went silent.
Fifty-one percent? Controlling interest of a company worth billions, of an empire I'd called corrupt and evil. Of everything Marcus had built while I'd been drowning in debt and eating stolen peanut butter packets.
I couldn't breathe.
Dominic stood so fast his chair crashed backward.
"That's impossible.”
- Writer
