The Day of the Funeral
Rain slicked the black umbrellas like sorrow made visible—each drop a silent eulogy falling from a pale, overcast sky. The grounds of the Hart estate, usually the stage for garden parties and champagne receptions, had become a somber sea of mourners draped in silk and black wool. The great iron gates stood open as if mourning too, their scrollwork wrapped in lilies and thorns.
Vivienne Hart stood beneath the largest umbrella, her face veiled in black lace. She had not spoken since the morning her husband, Everett Hart, was found dead at the foot of the grand staircase three weeks ago. The press had called it "a tragic accident." A heart attack. A misstep. But in Vivienne's silence, the world had found space to imagine something far more tantalizing.
The veil wasn't just tradition—it was armor.
"Mrs. Hart," murmured a voice beside her. It was William Ashcroft, Everett's long-time lawyer and the executor of his estate. His graying brows were furrowed, and his voice held the carefully measured tones of someone used to dealing with vast wealth and delicate grief. "We can begin whenever you're ready."
Vivienne gave a single nod. She didn't trust her voice. Not yet.
The crowd slowly gathered around the mausoleum—a white marble structure set at the edge of the gardens, where the Hart family buried their own. The priest began to speak, his words lost beneath the thunder rumbling above and the murmuring wind threading through the cypress trees.
Vivienne didn't listen.
Instead, she watched them.
The guests. The vultures. The curious.
Men and women from every corner of New York society, dressed in couture mourning, whispered behind gloved hands. Some offered practiced expressions of sympathy, others glanced with thinly concealed interest at the widow draped in elegance and silence.
And then there were the strangers—faces she didn't know. Among them, a man standing near the hedges caught her attention. He wasn't dressed like the others. No designer coat. No umbrella. Rain matted his dark hair to his forehead as he observed everything with the sharpness of someone who saw more than he should.
Vivienne's eyes met his.
He didn't look away.
She turned before she could be pulled into his gaze, but unease lingered in her bones like the damp seeping into her gloves.
As the final rites concluded, a soft breeze lifted the edge of her veil. The movement revealed just a sliver of her face—enough to stir the cameras stationed at a respectful distance. Enough to ignite tomorrow's headlines.
THE WIDOW LIFTS HER VEIL.
It would sell papers. But the truth remained buried—just like Everett.
Later, after the mourners had vanished into their sleek black town cars and the estate had fallen into heavy silence, Vivienne stood alone in the library. The fire crackled, casting soft light against the towering bookshelves. Her gloves lay on a mahogany table, damp and crumpled.
She poured a glass of scotch from Everett's decanter—his favorite. The scent hit her like memory: leather chairs, cigars, and ambition. She raised the glass but didn't drink.
Instead, she walked to the window and parted the curtain just enough to peer out into the fog.
He was still there.
The man in the rain.
He leaned against one of the stone lion statues by the gate, as if he belonged there, as if waiting.
Vivienne let the curtain fall.
He would come to her soon. They always did. Reporters. Biographers. Those who claimed to have known Everett or claimed to know her. They all wanted the same thing: the truth.
But the truth had teeth. And Vivienne had spent three weeks sewing her silence closed with thread so tight it had begun to cut.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she said at last.
The door creaked open, revealing Marianne, her late husband's housekeeper—and now, perhaps, her only loyal confidant.
"There's someone at the gate," Marianne said softly. "He says his name is Julian Reed. He asked for a word."
Vivienne took a breath. Her first visitor.
"Tell him he'll get fifteen minutes," she said, turning away from the window. "And not a second more."
The drawing room was pristine, as if mourning had tidied every corner. Velvet curtains filtered the gray light into a soft silver glow, and the faint scent of white lilies lingered in the air—overpowering and hollow. Vivienne sat with her spine perfectly straight, her veil now pulled back but still draped over her shoulders like a shadow she couldn't shed.
Julian Reed entered without hesitation when Marianne opened the door.
He was taller than she expected, though perhaps it was the confidence in his stride that gave the impression of height. His clothes were plain but well-fitted—an unassuming navy coat, no tie, and leather boots darkened from the rain. There was a tiredness to him, but not weakness. His eyes—storm-gray—moved like they were always hunting for edges, cracks, truths.
"Mr. Reed," Vivienne said, her voice smooth but cool. "You have fifteen minutes."
"That's all I need," he replied, offering a polite nod before taking the seat opposite her. He didn't pull out a recorder or notebook. Just watched her, as if memorizing her presence.
"You're a journalist," she said.
"I was," he corrected. "Now I write books. Real ones."
"I assume you're here about Everett."
He hesitated for only a moment. "I'm writing a biography. On Everett's legacy. His rise. The empire he built. The man behind the press releases."
Vivienne allowed herself a wry smile. "You think you can fit him between hardcovers?"
"I think there's a story behind his death no one's told yet."
There it was.
The real reason.
Vivienne's smile faded.
"You should talk to his board. His investors. His mistresses. They'll all have more to say than I do."
"But none of them were married to him for twelve years."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs carefully. "Then you should know—Everett didn't believe in transparency. And he married a woman who understood that silence is a currency."
Julian studied her. "I read the coroner's report. The official cause was a fall. But I also know he had no history of heart problems. No traces of alcohol or sedatives in his blood. And there were scratches on the banister, like he tried to stop himself."
Vivienne looked out the window. Rain streaked down the panes in soft rivers.
"You're not the first to come asking questions, Mr. Reed."
"But I might be the only one asking the right ones."
She looked at him then—really looked. He wasn't just chasing a story. He was chasing something personal. She'd seen that look before, in the mirror after the night Everett died.
"What is it you think you'll find?" she asked.
"Truth," he said. "Or maybe just the version you've been hiding."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, quietly, Vivienne said, "Everett wasn't a man who left things to chance. If he died, it was either exactly what he planned… or someone else's plan came first."
Julian blinked, caught off guard. "Are you saying he was murdered?"
"I'm saying you have ten minutes left."
He didn't press. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and slid a small envelope onto the table between them.
"I found this in the archives of The Ledger. It's an unpublished letter Everett wrote. Dated two months before he died. It was addressed to you."
Vivienne didn't move.
"I thought you should see it."
She watched him for a moment, then slowly reached for the envelope. The paper was cream-colored, expensive, with her name written in Everett's precise, formal hand. She traced the letters with her fingertips but didn't open it.
"You're either very bold or very foolish," she said.
"I've been both," he answered with a faint smile. "But I'm not here to hurt you. I think there's something bigger going on, Mrs. Hart. And whether you know it or not—you're at the center of it."
Vivienne stood. It was not dismissal—it was armor resetting itself.
"I agreed to fifteen minutes," she said, voice quiet but firm. "Not an interrogation."
Julian rose, nodding. "I understand."
As he reached the door, he turned once more. "If you decide to talk… you know where to find me. I'm staying at the Everett."
Of course he was.
Vivienne waited until the door clicked shut, then turned back to the envelope.
She held it for a long time.
Then slowly—deliberately—she broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Her breath caught as her eyes skimmed the first line.
Vivienne, if you're reading this, it means something's gone wrong. Something I feared but couldn't stop. There are things you must know—and things you must never tell…