He walks in, carrying the same leather envelope, and sits in the high-backed chair opposite Stella. I sit next to her, my fingers lacing with hers.
Preston clears his throat and begins. “First, here is a letter your father wrote. There were extremely specific circumstances for you to receive this letter. I have not read it, nor has he told me the contents of the letter. Just everything will make sense after you read it.” He hands her the cream envelope, with Vince Carrington's name embossed across it in gold inlay.
Now, to the family assets. He opens his folder and scans the paper, clearing his throat. “Your parents indicated you are the only person to inherit their legacy. Because no one else could hold it the way you do.” He closes his folder and stands. “Stella, everything. The cars, the house, the money, the legacy. Everything is yours to do with as you want.” He pulls me into a hug. “I am here for you, whenever you need anything. Your father was my best friend.” He turns to leave, his hand twisting the doorknob. Before the door opens, he turns to say, “Stella, your father has also prepaid me for ANY legal matters you might need.”
She doesn’t speak.
Just stands. Smooths the front of her dress like she’s fixing something that isn’t broken.
And then she walks. Out of the room. Down the hall. Past the kitchen, where the smell of someone else’s lasagna still lingers.
I wait a beat, then follow—but I don’t call her name.
I already know where she’s going.
I give her time to breathe, to feel.
The art studio door is already open when I get there. The overhead light is off. Sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in gold and shadow.
Her dress is on the floor. Pooled like a crime scene.
She’s standing in a camisole now, barefoot, hair still perfectly twisted back—as if grief hasn’t dared to touch her crown.
But it’s in her hands.
A brush in one. A palette knife in the other.
And a canvas already smeared with blood-red strokes that look like they were carved, not painted.
She doesn’t turn when I enter. Doesn’t speak.
The only sound is her heavy breathing and the sound of her paintbrush sweeping across the canvas.
I take a step closer.
“Stella…” The palette knife hits the wall before I finish her name.
She spins towards me, her eyes glassy and her voice shaking.
“Every child ends up burying the people who love them most, and we call that normal. How the fuck does anyone choose to bring a child into that? Into a world where they get bullied at eight, heartbroken at sixteen, and then—then they have to stand over a grave and figure out how to keep breathing.”
She gestures wildly to the air—to the empty space, the pain, the silence. “How am I supposed to carry someone, knowing that one day they’ll have to bury us? And we won’t be there to fix it. We won’t be there at all.”
“This is a cruel fucking world, Donovan. Kids are mean. Grief is a thief. And love—”Her voice cracks. Her lip trembles before she clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head. “I can’t do that to someone else. I won’t.”
I don’t move at first. Not because I’m afraid of her—but because I’m afraid of breaking her. The silence she leaves behind is heavier than her words. Like the grief itself is pressing against the walls, waiting to swallow her whole.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. My voice comes out rough, like I’ve been holding it in my throat too long. “Itiscruel, unfair, messy, and fucking terrifying.”
I take a step forward. “But what if, in the middle of all that pain, they gotyou?”
She doesn’t look at me, but I see her fingers twitch—like part of her wants to hurl something else, and part of her just wants to be held.
I take another step, slow and sure. “What if they got a mother who painted her grief in color? A mother who didn’t lie about life being easy but taught them how to survive it anyway?”
My hand finds the edge of the paint-smeared table. “What if they gotus, Stella?”
Her shoulders tremble. She still won’t look at me.
