Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Father's Death
Writer's POV
Richard Harlow's funeral was attended by hundreds.
Business associates. Politicians. Society people who'd never actually known the man but showed up because appearances mattered.
Evan stood at the front of the church in a black suit, listening to a priest eulogize a father who'd been drunk more often than sober, distant more often than present, cruel more often than kind.
He felt nothing.
No grief. No sadness. No relief that the old man was finally gone.
Just... emptiness where emotions should be.
Margaret sat beside him, perfectly composed in black Chanel, her face a mask. She hadn't cried. Hadn't broken. Had simply arranged the funeral with the efficiency she brought to everything.
"You'll need to take over the company," she'd told Evan the day after Richard died. No condolences. No comfort. Just business. "The board expects it. Your father left everything to you."
Everything.
Harlow Industries. The estate. The lake where Lucas died. The legacy of a family built on old money and older secrets.
Evan had nodded. Said he'd handle it. Felt nothing about that either.
Then Fabiola's hand slipped into his.
Warm. Real. Alive.
He turned to look at her. She'd worn a simple black dress, her hair pulled back, her face soft with concern.
"Are you okay?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he admitted.
She squeezed his hand. Didn't let go.
And suddenly, Evan could breathe again.
The numbness cracked. Not broken just cracked enough to let something in.
He brought her hand to his face, pressed his nose to her wrist, and breathed deep.
Cocoa butter. That vanilla lotion she loved. Coffee from this morning. Her.
Warm and alive and real.
The only thing that made any of this bearable.
"Thank you," he whispered against her skin.
"For what?"
"For being here. For being you." He lowered her hand but didn't let go. "For being the only thing I can feel right now."
Fabiola's eyes filled with tears. "I'm not going anywhere."
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "That's the only reason I'm still standing."
Three Months Later
Evan sat in his father's office his office now on the top floor of Harlow Industries.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. The desk was mahogany and massive. Everything screamed power, wealth, legacy.
It felt like a prison.
"The quarterly reports are ready for your review," his assistant said, placing a stack of folders on the desk. "And the board wants to schedule a meeting about the expansion plans."
"Thank you, Claire. I'll look at them this afternoon."
She left, and Evan stared at the folders.
This was his life now. CEO of a company he'd never wanted. Heir to a fortune built by men he'd never respected. Living in an estate filled with ghosts literal and metaphorical.
He should feel proud. Accomplished. Successful.
Instead, he felt hollow.
The healing had taken the darkness but left something else missing. Some essential piece of himself that he couldn't quite name.
His phone buzzed. A text from Fabiola.
How's your first week going?
Evan smiled despite himself.
Surviving. Miss you.
Miss you too. Dinner tonight? I'll cook.
Perfect. I'll bring wine.
Just bring yourself. That's all I need.
Evan stared at those words, something warm spreading through his chest.
That's all I need.
Not his money. Not his name. Not the company or the estate or any of it.
Just him.
He responded: I love you.
Love you more. See you tonight.
Evan set down his phone and looked around the office again.
Maybe this was bearable after all. The board meetings and quarterly reports and endless responsibilities.
Because at the end of every day, he got to go home to Fabiola.
To warmth and laughter and someone who saw him really saw him and loved him anyway.
That was enough.
It had to be enough.
At Home
There was still something missing. Some piece of himself he couldn't quite locate. Some intensity that used to burn in him that now just... simmered.
But it was worth it.
Worth trading obsession for stability.
Worth trading darkness for light.
Worth everything if it meant keeping Fabiola.
He pulled her closer, buried his face in her hair, and breathed deep.
She smelled like home.
Like happiness.
Like everything he'd ever wanted.
And if sometimes, late at night, he thought he heard whispers from the east wing
If sometimes he felt watched
If sometimes the lake looked too dark, too hungry
Well.
That was just his imagination.
The past trying to claw its way back.
But the past was dead.
Lucas was dead.
The darkness was gone.
Evan was free.
Free.
He repeated it like a mantra as he fell asleep.
I'm free. We're happy. Everything is fine.
And almost believed it.
While in the east wing, in Lucas's locked room, something cold grief in the darkness.
Not free, it whispered.
Never free.
Soon, it promised.
Very soon.
But Evan didn't hear it.
He was too busy being normal.
Too busy being happy.
Too busy being alive.
And that made Lucas angrier than anything.
Because Lucas was none of those things.
And he was done waiting.