The pulleys squeak—too loud in the silence—as the casket begins to sink into the ground. Pine wood and gold, polished like a mirror. It catches the sunlight as it goes under.
Stella doesn’t move.
Her hand is clenched around mine so tightly I think I’ll bruise, but I don’t let go.
She hasn’t said a word since the service. She didn’t cry when she spoke. Not only that, but she didn’t cry when the music ended. And she doesn’t cry now.
Her mother’s casket follows. White lacquer. Silver accents. The one she designed herself—I remember Stella telling me that once, like it was funny.“Who plans their own casket five years in advance?”
Apparently, people who know what legacy means.
People like the Carringtons.
The wind shifts. A few flower petals lift from the arrangement and scatter through the air like snow.
Stella doesn’t flinch.
She just watches.
Her whole body is tight—like she’s made of marble. Like if she lets one thing slip, she’ll come apart at the seams and never find all the pieces.
I wish I could take it from her—all of it. I’d bury myself if it meant she didn’t have to feel this.
But grief doesn’t work like that.
This part—the dirt, the silence, the finality—this part is hers alone.
Ansel is on her other side. Blythe stands behind them, one hand resting gently on Stella’s shoulder. Preston Langford says a final prayer. The workers nod and start shoveling.
And still—she doesn’t cry.
She just stands there, her spine straight, her heels sinking slightly into the soft earth, watching the only two people who ever made her feel safe disappear into the ground.
God,she looks beautiful. And absolutely wrecked.
I glance down at her hand, still gripping mine.
Her fingernails are painted merlot—the same color as the polish she wore the night we were married. She hasn’t changed colors since.
I kiss the back of her hand. It trembles slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.
She doesn’t look at me.
She doesn’t look at anything but the grave.
The house is full of murmurs and casseroles. People she barely remembers are hugging her like they’ve earned the right.
“We're so sorry.”
“They loved you so much.”
“If you need anything…”
The same sentences over and over—grief rehearsed, packaged, and passed around like polite hors d'oeuvres (appetizers).
The only reprieve she gets is when Preston kindly asks everyone to leave. Once the last car disappears down her winding driveway, Preston makes his way back to the family room.
Stella is sitting on the couch, a whiskey neat, her father’s favorite brand, in the only whiskey glass he drinks from. She is sitting poised, her heel-clad feet delicately crossed at the ankle. Every inch the goddess she is.
