Right there on the living room floor, in front of the people I love most, with my husband holding me and my friends anchoring the pieces of me that are already starting to float away.
My world collapses.
My parents are gone—both of them.
Gone.
The Arizona heat hits differently. It’s dry, bone-deep, and the air feels heavy even without humidity. Donovan’s parents are waiting for us just outside baggage claim, standing quietly by his dad’s truck. They don’t say anything right away—just open their arms.
His mother hugs me like I’m breakable.
His father says my name with a kind of softness I’ve never heard from him before.
I don’t cry. I think I did all my crying on the floor in Virginia. Now, I’m just… empty.
The ride to Agave Hills is silent.
The desert rushes by out the window—flat and endless, golden and cruel. Nothing looks familiar, even though I know this road by heart. I could still draw the skyline from memory, but it doesn’t feel like home. Not without them in it.
We pull up to my parents’ house—my house now—just before sunset. The place has always felt too big. Too many rooms, too many echoes. But now it feelshollow. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to walk through the door. Waiting for laughter, footsteps, and music.
But no one’s coming back.
Donovan opens the front door and helps carry the bags in. Everything inside is still pristine—my mother’s vases. My father’s coat is still hanging by the door. I almost expect to hear her heels clicking across the tile or his laugh echoing from the back patio.
Instead, it’s just silence. Polished. Perfect. Dead.
I sleep for fourteen hours.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of the doorbell.
Donovan is already up. I hear his voice at the front door, then footsteps approaching the sitting room where I’m curled up with a blanket and a mug of untouched tea.
“Stell,” he says gently. “It’s Preston.”
My stomach turns.
Preston Langford, my father's best friend and my family’s attorney. He’s been on retainer since before I was born. Always in a three-piece suit. Always with a pen in his pocket and a perfectly folded handkerchief in his coat.
He walks in like he doesn’t want to be here either, hat in hand and sorrow written in the lines of his face.
“Miss Carrington,” he says softly, then corrects himself, “Mrs.Carrington. I’m so deeply sorry for your loss.”
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
He sits across from me and opens a slim leather folder. Everything about him is composed. Respectful. Efficient. It almost makes me feel like I can breathe again—until he starts talking.
“Your parents made thorough arrangements in the event of their passing,” he says. “Everything is prepaid. The caskets were custom-designed five years ago by your father. The flowers, music, and readings—your mother selected them personally. There is nothing you need to organize. All that remains is your presence.”
I swallow hard. “They planned it all?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, offering a faint smile. “As your mother put it, 'The Carrington' name deserves a farewell as carefully crafted as the lives we’ve built.”
I laugh. It's small and painful. But it’s something.
Preston hesitates, then adds, “There is also the matter of the will and a personal letter from your father… but we can speak on that after the service. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
