Master Ashford's Funeral

The agonizing, hour-long drive to the sprawling Ashford residence felt like a suffocating cage. Alone in the backseat, my mind was a chaotic swirl of horrific thoughts. Images of Sienna’s bleeding body, the revelation of a baby, and Damian’s chilling parting gaze suffocated me. The intense emotional stress of the morning, combined with my own early pregnancy, left me so severely nauseous that the absolute moment the car stopped in the grand driveway, I shoved the heavy door open and rushed out.

Stumbling onto the pavement, I staggered toward the manicured flowerbeds bordering the mansion and fell to my knees. I began dry-heaving forcefully. Bitter bile burned the back of my throat, but my stomach was empty. I clutched my abdomen, gasping for air as the cold morning breeze hit my sweating face.

"Yo, you got weak after you married into the Ashford family. You even vomited after traveling here by car."

The sharp, distinctly unpleasant voice sliced through the crisp air. I wiped my mouth with the back of my trembling hand and slowly stood up. I did not need to look at the grand marble steps to know who was speaking. It was Eleanor, Victor Ashford's wife and my aunt-in-law. Her bitter resentment toward me was an open secret in this household. She despised my notoriously poor background, viewing me as nothing but a gold-digger. She loathed the fact that Master Ashford favored me over his own blood relatives. But more than anything, she harbored endless fury that the old man bypassed others to entrust the lucrative reigns of the family business directly to my husband, Damian.

Forcing myself to swallow the lingering nausea, I offered a polite nod. "Good morning, Aunt Eleanor."

Seeing that I had arrived alone, Eleanor’s haughty expression quickly soured into a nasty sneer. "What? The Young Master isn’t going to attend the funeral?"

A wave of deep public humiliation washed over me. The Ashford family placed immense value on tradition and respect. For the sole heir to skip his grandfather's memorial was a monumental scandal. Masking my internal shame with a strained, awkward laugh, I offered a sloppy, desperate excuse to save face for my husband.

"Damian has something urgent, but he might arrive later."

"Haha!" Eleanor sneered loudly, tilting her chin up to ensure the grieving staff and early guests lingering near the entrance heard her. "So much for the man chosen by Master Ashford."

Choosing to ignore the cruel barb, I walked past her and stepped inside the grand memorial hall. The sheer scale of the mourning setup was overwhelming. The cavernous room smelled intensely of fresh lilies and burning incense. Master Ashford’s ornate urn sat solemnly at the center, surrounded by an absolute sea of pristine white flowers. A heavy sorrow settled in my chest, tightening my throat.

While Eleanor and Victor positioned themselves prominently outside the main doors to receive the most eminent and wealthy guests, I quietly took on the grueling task of greeting attendees indoors. I stood near the urn, bowing my head repeatedly to the murmuring crowd until my back ached and my vision blurred from physical exhaustion.

Amidst the somber sea of black suits, Agnes—Master Ashford’s incredibly loyal, elderly caretaker—approached me. Her weathered face was etched with profound grief. In her trembling hands, she securely held a small, intricately carved, locked wooden box. A heavy brass lock sealed it shut.

"Miss Vance," Agnes called out softly, her voice cracking under the weight of her sadness.

I stepped away from the receiving line. "What is it, Agnes?"

"This is what Master Ashford left for you," Agnes murmured sorrowfully, pressing the heavy box directly into my trembling palms. "He knows Young Master Ashford will force you to divorce him. Hand this box to him if you don’t want a divorce. He won’t divorce you so easily when he sees this."

My heart skipped a beat. A way to stop the divorce? I brushed my thumb over the intricate carvings, bewildered by the locked square box in my hands. What could possibly be inside that would change Damian's mind? "Where’s the key then?" I asked softly.

"Master Ashford had already passed the key to Damian," Agnes replied quietly.

Our fates were locked together by a dead man’s final wish. Damian possessed the key, and I held the box.

Studying my exceptionally pale, exhausted face, the caretaker's eyes softened with genuine concern. She added gently, "You look worn out. Master Ashford also hopes that you can have a kid with Young Master Ashford. Don’t let their bloodline stop at your generation."

The sudden mention of bearing children left me stunned. The secret of my six-week pregnancy felt incredibly heavy in my womb. Just hours ago, I watched Sienna bleed on my floor, crying about losing a baby. And now Agnes was begging me to carry an Ashford heir, unaware that I was already carrying one. I forced a tight, polite smile and remained completely silent, unable to confess the truth. I just clutched the wooden box against my chest.

The grueling day slowly dragged on, eventually shifting from the stifling memorial hall to the sprawling family cemetery for the evening burial rites. The twilight air bit into my skin. I stood near the open grave, waiting through the exhausting hassle of the staff and the priest’s solemn prayers. I listened to the hollow thud of dirt hitting the casket.

Even after all the exhausting hassle, the prayers, and the final, solemn rites, Damian never once showed up to honor his grandfather.

His glaring absence caused immense humiliation for me and angered the rest of the family. As the burial ceremony formally concluded in the fading light, Victor Ashford approached me. He walked with a rigid posture, firmly holding Eleanor’s hand. He gazed at me with a cool, detached finality that signaled a permanent shift in the family dynamics. Master Ashford was dead. There was no one left to protect Damian or me from their wrath.

"Adeline," Victor stated coldly, officially washing his hands of Damian's blatant disrespect. "What's done is done, so tell Damian not to hold a grudge against our dad when you reach home. My father doesn’t owe him anything."