A pale gray haze hung low over the cemetery, softening the sharp lines of the city skyline.
The funeral procession had arrived an hour late, but no one dared to complain—not when it was Jin Monrrow, the richest man on the Eastern continent, who was burying his daughter.
The black cars rolled to a halt along the stone-paved path, their polished surfaces gleaming like oil beneath the overcast sky.
Jin stepped out first.
No tears. No hesitation.
Just a crisp black suit, an immaculate silver tie, and eyes hidden behind designer sunglasses.
His expression hadn't changed since the news broke a few days ago: Julia Monrrow, 32, heiress to a fashion empire, dead in a car crash on the Northbridge Expressway.
At least, that's what the headlines claimed.
Now, the world had gathered to see how Jin Monrrow would mourn.
He didn't.
