The drive from the villa to the Fuller family home took an hour, but it felt like I was trapped inside it much longer. My mind kept slipping in and out of focus, stuck on Rebecca's pregnancy and the look Ashton gave me before he walked away.
I couldn't breathe properly. Each inhale felt too shallow, like my chest refused to open fully. Something inside me stayed tight the entire way, refusing to settle.
When the car finally stopped in front of the Fuller estate, my body reacted before my thoughts did. I stepped out too fast, and a wave of nausea hit me hard. I bent over the flowerbed and retched, my hands shaking as my body refused to calm down, though nothing came out.
"Seems like being Mrs. Fuller has made you fragile. A short ride and you're already like this."
The voice was sharp, cutting through the air from the entrance.
I didn't need to look up. I already knew who it was.
The Fuller family line was always divided. George had two sons. The elder, Christopher, had died years ago in a crash with his wife, leaving only Ashton behind. The younger son was Charlie Fuller, and that side of the family never hid their resentment.
The woman speaking now was Helen Clarke, Charlie's wife.
I wiped my mouth slowly and straightened myself before facing her. "Aunt Helen."
Her eyes were cold the moment they landed on me. She had never liked me. Maybe it was because I wasn't born into this world of power, yet still stood at its center. Or maybe it was because George placed more trust in Ashton and pushed him forward as the future head, leaving the rest of them behind.
Either way, I was the easiest target.
Helen glanced at me for a moment, then shifted her gaze behind me toward the car. When she realized Ashton wasn't there, her expression darkened instantly.
"What?" she said sharply. "The so-called favored grandson didn't even show up for his grandfather's funeral?"
The words carried both anger and satisfaction, like she had been waiting for this moment.
I forced a small, controlled smile. "Something urgent came up. He may be delayed."
Helen let out a short, mocking laugh. "So this is the man your grandfather placed all his hope in. I really wonder what he saw in him."
Her voice carried a deeper meaning, something bitter beneath the surface. The air around us felt heavy, like even the estate itself was listening.
More guests began to arrive, their presence filling the space with quiet pressure. Everyone wore black, but it wasn't just grief in their eyes—it was evaluation, judgment, calculation.
Helen adjusted her expression quickly, smoothing her face into something more acceptable for public view. The hostility didn't disappear, only hid itself better.
She didn't push further, not in front of others.
But her gaze stayed on me, cold and sharp, as if reminding me that this kindness was temporary.
And standing there, I felt it clearly again—the Fuller estate wasn't just mourning.
It was waiting.
We entered the family home together. The hall was already filled with a heavy silence that pressed against my chest the moment I stepped inside. George's casket sat at the center, surrounded by white flowers that looked too pure for something so final.
Guests kept arriving one after another, all dressed in black, each carrying the quiet pressure of power and status. The air was thick with controlled emotions, the kind only old bloodlines knew how to hide. Charlie and Helen stayed outside to receive guests, while I remained inside the hall, standing near the casket and greeting those who came to pay respect.
"Ms. Stovall."
I turned at the voice. Mrs. Eriksen was walking toward me, holding a small sandalwood box carefully in both hands.
"Mrs. Eriksen," I said softly. "What is this?"
She stopped in front of me and placed the box into my hands. Her expression was gentle, but there was something heavy behind her eyes, like she was passing me something I wasn't supposed to refuse.
"This was left to you by Mr. Fuller before he passed," she said. "Keep it safe."
My fingers tightened around the smooth wood. It felt warm, almost like it had been held too many times already.
She continued after a short pause. "He knew Ashton might push for a separation after his passing. If you don't want that, give this box to him. Once he sees it, he will think twice before making any decision like that."
I looked down at the box. It was small, square, and locked with a hidden mechanism. No visible way in.
I raised my eyes slightly. "Where is the key?"
Her gaze lingered on me before she answered. "Mr. Fuller already gave it to Mr. Ashton."
Then her voice softened. "You've lost too much weight recently. Take care of yourself. Mr. Fuller always hoped you and Mr. Ashton would have a healthy son together, an heir for the family line. Now that he is gone… don't let that hope die with the two of you."
The word child made something in my chest pause. Not pain, not acceptance—just a strange stillness I couldn't explain.
I didn't respond. I only gave her a small, polite smile, letting the silence speak for me.
After the prayers, the casket was prepared for burial. The entire hall felt even heavier as people moved in slow, respectful steps, as if even breathing too loudly would break something sacred.
By noon, everything was ready.
But Ashton still hadn't arrived.
Time passed, and the final rites were completed without him. No message. No presence. Only absence, sharp enough to feel like an intentional wound.
When it was all over, Charlie finally came inside.
He walked in with Helen on his arm, his expression tight, like he had been holding something back for too long. He stopped in front of me.
"Letty," he said, voice low but firm. "Grandpa George is gone. He's not coming back."
His gaze hardened slightly as he continued. "Go and tell Ashton to stop holding onto this grudge. The old man didn't owe him anything."