Alone in Mourning

POV: Valerie Thorne.

The hour-long drive to the Vance ancestral estate felt like a descent into an endless nightmare. I sat frozen in the back seat of the black sedan, the tinted windows offering a blurred, indifferent view of the passing trees. The world outside moved at a normal pace, but I was trapped in a suffocating bubble of dread. Every time I blinked, the horrific image flashed behind my eyelids. I saw Chloe curled in a devastating pool of dark crimson blood at the base of the staircase. I saw the stark terror in her eyes, but more than that, I saw the chilling venom in Tristan’s gaze. The memory of his face as he looked up at me from the foyer tightened around my throat like a vice. He had accused me without hesitation. He believed I was celebrating that tragedy. He believed I had orchestrated it.

The crushing stress of the morning pressed down on my chest, leaving me gasping for shallow breaths of the leather-scented air inside the vehicle. On top of the agonizing mental toll, a sudden wave of physical rebellion surged upward. My secret morning sickness, aggravated by the anxiety and the winding roads leading up the mountain, rolled in my stomach with uncontrollable force. I clenched my jaw, pressing a cold, clammy hand against my mouth, desperate to hold it together.

The moment the vehicle pulled up along the sweeping cobblestone driveway of the sprawling estate, the driver barely had time to shift into park. I shoved the heavy door open, stumbled out onto the immaculate stones, and fell onto my knees right beside an ornamental flowerbed. The scent of damp earth and fresh fertilizer hit my senses, tipping me over the edge. I grabbed the cold stone border of the planter and dry-heaved over the soil. My body wrecked with spasms, retching again and again until my throat burned with a harsh, acidic fire. Tears of sheer physical exertion pricked the corners of my eyes.

"My, my. It seems becoming Mrs. Vance has made you terribly delicate, seeing how a simple car ride makes you vomit like an invalid."

The sharp, sneering voice echoed from the front porch, slicing through the quiet morning air. I knew that voice. It carried the same condescending edge that had haunted my presence in this family from day one. I dragged a shaky breath into my raw lungs, pulling a tissue from my pocket to wipe my mouth. I used the edge of the stone planter to push myself upright, smoothing down the front of my black mourning suit.

I looked up toward the top of the grand stone steps. Diane Croft stood there, draped in an exquisite, tailored black mourning dress that looked more suited for a dark runway than a funeral. A wide-brimmed black hat partially shaded her cold, calculating eyes. Diane was my uncle Victor Vance’s wife. Coming from an ordinary background without a shred of blue-blood pedigree, I had endured her thinly veiled malice for two long years. She possessed a deep, festering resentment toward me. Her hatred stemmed from a bitter family dispute. Grandpa Arthur had bypassed her side of the family entirely, handing the massive reins of the Vance Corporation down to Tristan instead. To add insult to her ongoing injury, Arthur had chosen me, a woman of no social standing, and elevated me as his favored granddaughter-in-law. For Diane, my existence was a walking, breathing reminder of her husband’s lost inheritance.

I swallowed the bitter taste lingering on my tongue, squared my shoulders, and offered a polite, measured bow toward the porch. "Aunt Diane."

Diane did not acknowledge the greeting. Her sharp eyes swept straight past my shoulder, scanning the empty cobblestone driveway. She looked at the idle sedan, at the driver closing my door, and then back to the empty space beside me. Her expression instantly darkened into a scowl of pure indignation when she registered that I had arrived alone.

"What is this? Where is Tristan? Don't tell me the golden grandson, the favorite heir who received everything, couldn't even be bothered to show up for his own grandfather’s funeral?"

Her accusation hung in the crisp air. The venom in her words was justified this time. Tristan's absence was not just a minor slight; it was a profound disrespect to the patriarch of the family. The extended family, the elite social circles, and the relentless press vultures would view this as a catastrophic scandal. The heir apparent ignoring the burial of the man who gave him the empire would send shockwaves through the corporate boardrooms by tomorrow morning. I knew I had to run interference, even if the man I was covering for was currently at the hospital with the woman he truly loved.

I clamped my hands together behind my back, pressing my fingernails into my palms to force a steady tone. I looked Diane in the eye and delivered the rehearsed lie. "Tristan was held up by a critical emergency at Vance Corporation. He is doing everything he can to handle it and will join us as soon as possible."

Diane stared at me for a split second before letting out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed off the grand stone pillars of the estate.

"Haha! This is the grand successor my father-in-law bet the entire family's future on! I truly wonder what kind of blind spell the old man was under."

She shook her head in disdain, a triumphant smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She had ammunition against Arthur's favored line now, and she clearly intended to use it. However, the sound of luxury engines approaching stopped her from pressing the interrogation further. A line of sleek black vehicles began snaking their way up the driveway. High-profile guests were arriving to pay their final respects. For the sake of the Vance family optics, Diane snapped her jaw shut, adjusted her posture into a picture of dignified grief, and turned her attention to the arriving dignitaries.

I took another stabilizing breath, straightened the lapels of my black suit, and walked past her.

The grand memorial hall of the estate had been transformed into a cavern of mourning. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the morning light, replaced by the soft glow of hundreds of candles. The thick, oppressive aroma of burning incense clashed with the overwhelming, sickly-sweet scent of thousands of white lilies arranged in towering displays. The heavy atmosphere hung thick in the air, punctuated by the low, haunting wails of distant relatives and the quiet murmurs of the elite.

I walked down the center aisle, my heels clicking softly on the polished marble floor. My destination was the focal point of the massive room. Grandpa Arthur’s dark mahogany casket rested on a raised velvet platform, shining under the muted lights. Looking at the polished wood, a fresh wave of grief hit me. Arthur had been my shield. In a world of wolves, he had treated me with genuine warmth. He had forced Tristan to marry me, believing it would ground his volatile grandson. It was a well-intentioned mistake that had doomed me to a loveless hell, but I could never hate Arthur for it. Now, that shield was dead.

As the lawful wife of the family heir, the duty fell upon my shoulders to stand vigil. I took my rightful place beside the casket. The physical agony of my pregnancy mixed with a profound emotional exhaustion as the hours began to blur. A ceaseless river of prominent dignitaries, cutthroat business partners, and influential politicians approached the platform. I bowed respectfully to each one, offering soft words of gratitude for their condolences, accepting their sympathetic nods, masking the devastating isolation I felt. They all noticed Tristan's absence. I could see the questions burning behind their polite masks. I answered them with the same rehearsed lie, over and over, until my jaw ached and my back throbbed in protest.

Sometime during the endless haze of the afternoon, the sea of black-clad mourners parted slightly. Mrs. Hobbs slipped quietly to my side. She was a fixture of the Vance household, a woman who commanded immense respect despite being staff. She had been Grandpa Arthur’s most trusted personal caretaker for over thirty years. She knew the old man's mind, his regrets, and his secrets better than anyone holding the Vance name.

Her weathered face was etched with deep sorrow. The lines around her eyes were heavy with fatigue, yet she looked at me with a profound sympathy that nearly broke my stoic facade. She stepped closer, using the tall arrangement of white lilies to shield us from the prying eyes of the guests. Without a word, she reached out and gently pressed an object into my cold palms.

I looked down. It was a small, intricately carved square sandalwood box. The wood was polished and smooth, radiating a faint, spicy scent that managed to cut through the oppressive smell of the lilies.

"Mrs. Vance... Val." Mrs. Hobbs whispered, her voice barely audible beneath the mournful drone of the funeral hymns playing from the string quartet in the corner. "This was entrusted to me by the old master before he passed. He knew Tristan’s stubborn temper better than anyone. He knew the boy would try to force you into a divorce the second he was in the ground. Master Arthur told me: if Tristan pushes you to the brink and you wish to save your marriage, give this box to him. Once he sees what is inside, he will think twice before discarding you."

I stared at the box in my hands. The smooth wood felt heavy with consequence. My fingers traced the intricate carvings of swirling clouds and mythical beasts, tracing down to the front where a peculiar, antique brass lock guarded the contents. There was no combination dial, only a slender, unique keyhole.

I looked up at the caretaker, keeping my tone hushed, mindful of the lingering guests nearby. "Where is the key, Mrs. Hobbs?"

"The master already gave the key directly to Mr. Tristan before his death." Mrs. Hobbs replied softly.

She reached out, gently patting my frail, shaking hand. Her warm skin provided a stark contrast to my icy fingers. Her sharp, perceptive eyes swept over my pale complexion, dropping for a split second to my waistline before returning to my face.

"Take care of your health, child. Master Arthur’s greatest wish was for you to bear a son to carry on the family bloodline."

Her words sliced through my chest like a double-edged sword. She spoke of lineage and hope, while I harbored a terrifying secret. I was pregnant. The nausea by the flowerbed was the proof of that bloodline growing within me. Yet, that very child had to remain my darkest secret. If Tristan found out now, in the wake of Chloe's horrific fall, he would not see my child as a blessing. He would see it as leverage, a trap, or worse, a target for his vengeance. I managed a weak, painful smile for Mrs. Hobbs and tucked the sandalwood box safely into the deep pocket of my mourning jacket.

By noon, the atmosphere in the hall shifted. The solemn funeral prayers concluded with a heavy finality. The guests began to drift toward the massive mahogany doors, moving toward the vast lawns outside. The designated pallbearers—a team of stoic men in dark suits—stepped forward. They took their positions on either side of the velvet platform, preparing to transport Arthur’s heavy casket out of the memorial hall and up the long pathway to the ancestral cemetery situated on the hillside of the estate.

I stood on the sidelines, watching the men secure the handles. Tristan had still not arrived.

The weight of the impending burial pressed down on the room. The grandfather who had given Tristan the world was about to be lowered into the earth, and the heir apparent was nowhere to be found.

As the service officially concluded in the hall, leaving only the grim task of the burial ahead, a heavy set of footsteps approached. Uncle Victor strode toward me. He looked older today, the grey at his temples standing out sharply against his black suit. Diane clung haughtily to his arm, her gaze fixed on the casket being slowly wheeled toward the exit.

Victor stopped a few feet away from me. He watched the pallbearers for a long, silent moment before turning his attention to me. He let out a heavy, somber sigh that seemed to carry decades of complicated family history.

He locked eyes with me, his expression hardened with a stern warning. "Val, your Grandpa Arthur won’t be coming back ever again. Go and tell Tristan to let go of his ancient grudge against the old man. My father never owed him anything."