He nods, gathers the folder, and stands to leave. “The funeral will be held this Friday. Private, as requested. The chapel is ready. I’ll have a car pick you up.”
After he leaves, I sit in the silence, staring into my tea.
They planned every detail.
Down to the last flower.
And somehow that hurts worse than anything else.
Like theyknew, like some part of them saw it coming and prepared for a world without them in it.
Stella
The hearse pulls up to the chapel just before noon.
Everything is white.
The sky, the marble steps, the flowers flanking the entrance. White roses. Casablanca lilies. Cream orchids are woven into garlands that hang heavy with scent. They remind me of my mother’s favorite perfume—something soft and expensive that lingered in every room after she left it.
I stand outside the car for a moment, frozen. Donovan is at my side, his hand on my lower back, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t had to. I think I stopped hearing words days ago.
The chapel doors open. A hush falls over the small crowd waiting inside. Everyone dressed in black. Everyone is looking at me like I’m porcelain about to crack.
They’re probably not wrong.
The seats are filled with familiar faces—people who’ve been circling our family for decades. Business partners. Board members. Distant cousins. Former teachers. The florist who’s done every Carrington event since I was seven. All were invitedbecause my mother planned this funeral like she planned every holiday—with lists, and backup lists, and gold-trimmed envelopes she kept in a fireproof box.
There is elegance in every goodbye. That’s what she always said. It sounded so polished on our company letterhead—now it feels like a curse. Because they really meant it. And they made damn sure even their own exit would be breathtaking.
I walk in slowly, my heels soundless on the polished stone. The chapel ceiling is arched and open, the stained glass filtering in a soft golden glow. It makes everything feel like it’s suspended—like this day, this hour, this grief, will never end.
Their caskets sit at the front.
Mahogany. Gold accents. These are the same ones my father designed five years ago. I remember walking into the workshop and seeing him sketching them on graph paper as if it were just another Tuesday.
“Someone’s got to do it right,” he told me.
They did it right.
Too right.
I take my seat in the front pew.
Someone hands me a program—thick, creamy paper. My mother’s handwriting is on the cover. A note she wrote to Preston when she finalized everything:If this finds you, then we’re gone. Please take care of our girl. Let her be the daughter today—not the legacy.
I grip the paper so tightly that it bends in my hands.
The service begins.
Soft piano. A string quartet was tucked to the side of the altar. The officiant’s voice is low, reverent, and respectful. He speaks about legacy, about love, and about devotion that outlives the body. He tells a story about my father giving away suits to grieving husbands who couldn’t afford funeral clothes. Not only that, but he mentions my mother’s relentless eye for beauty andhow she once redesigned a grieving family’s memorial cards because they “deserved something that looked like love, not loss.”
People nod. Some weep.
I sit still.
Because if I move—if I blink too long or breathe too deep—I'll fall apart.
The eulogies come next. Preston reads first. Then, my father’s business partner. Then, a friend of my mother’s from her garden club.
