Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
DAMIEN
The priest’s voice is a dry rasp. His words sound appropriately respectful for a funeral, but they have nothing in common with the man in the coffin. Integrity and generosity aren’t virtues my father ever possessed.
Once the final blessing is read, the small crowd of mourners shift uncomfortably. I scoop up a handful of dirt, and it falls on the casket lid with a soft, unsatisfying thump.
Ophelia bends beside me and takes a smaller handful, sprinkling it while the wind cuts through my coat. She falls back next to me with a shiver, and I drape it across her shoulders, not caring whether I’m warm.
“Go wait in the car,” I say, voice pitched low, so she’s the only one who can hear it. “You’re freezing, and this lot will take their time.”
She purses her lips, readying a protest, but I shake my head.
“Please. I need to handle this alone.”
She hesitates a moment, then nods, pressing a kiss against my cheek before she walks away. The imprint stays with me as I greet the first in line. A business associate of my father’s—like almost everyone here—with a clammy handshake and bad breath behind the sharp scent of mint.
“He was a great man, Damien. A real loss.”
I nod, my face showing the appropriate solemnity while I count the mourners in line. Twenty-six handshakes till freedom.
Another woman, a distant cousin or maybe an old neighbour, clutches my arm and tells me how much I resemble him.
The condolences wash over me, no staying power. Empty words from people who either feared him or were desperate for a piece of what he had.
Vincent Impaglia holds back until the crowd thins; eyes narrowed as he waits for his moment. He nods at two men near his car, and they stand at attention. I can feel a target growing on my back.
“Damien.” His grip is firmer than the mourners who came before, far more confident. “A difficult day. Alexander was a formidable man, and the business world will feel his absence.”
“I’m sure it will.”
I see flashes of Chelsea in the way his gaze lingers on me, assessing, probing for weakness. My memory plays back the cool edge of a knife blade against my neck.
“This isn’t the time, but we should get into a room together soon. Aligning our companies is what your father wanted.”
What my father wanted was to acquire Impaglia Industries under the guise of a billion-dollar merger and spit out the bones.
Presumably, Vincent now envisions doing the same to me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so eager after stonewalling my father to the point he couldn’t even get a meeting.
“No thanks,” I say, holding his gaze level. “My future wife wouldn’t like that at all.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, but not before a flash of irritation. “I wasn’t aware you were engaged.”
“You will be.”
I turn away before he can respond, a deliberate dismissal, and head for the car, but Ophelia’s no longer in there.
My eyes scan the graveyard, finding her standing with another young woman whose body is lined with tension, arms wrapped around herself. Even knowing the likely reason, I don’t relax until Ophelia hugs her, giving her a card before she walks back to me.
“Another claimant?”
“Yeah. I gave her the lawyer’s number.” Her lips curl inward as I open the door, and her voice drops lower. “I might have given her permission to spit on his grave.”
A sentiment I’m onboard with. When the girl looks our way again, I raise a hand, and she gives a tiny nod.
“Are you okay?” Ophelia asks once every straggler has gone.
Bryan’s grave lies in a crematorium on the other side of the city. His death was discovered late on the first Tuesday, when repeated calls from his work hadn’t been answered. A police wellness-check soon followed.
His file now waits at the coroner’s office for review. The average time from death to an inquiry stands at over two years for suicide, and the police rendered their verdict when they handed the case over.
His funeral was organised by the council. Only a few work colleagues bothered to attend.
Ophelia shrugs off my coat and returns it to me, tilting her head in a way that’s grown familiar over the past few months; a gesture that activates the magnification in her augmented lenses.
“I’m fine,” I protest before she reads my expression.
But I’m not.
The numbness from the funeral is fading. I shrug on my coat and pat the right-side pocket. The small box sits where it’s been for the past four weeks, waiting for the right moment.
At first, I couldn’t ask because my dad lay undiscovered. There was way too much uncertainty.
Then, during yet another visit from Gregorie, I suggested getting a locksmith in to open the locked basement door. The one ‘only he had a key to.’ Just to ‘make sure.’
Cue the horrifying discovery. It wasn’t hard faking upset when the smell rolled upstairs.
Afterwards, police, insurance, endless interviews… I grew sick of my lawyer’s face.
Three weeks to be found. Seven months before police closed their file, releasing his body for burial.
All I want is for this portion of my life to be done. I can’t dance on my father’s grave, not without something seeing me, but the small box seems like an appropriate way to cement his death and move on.
A digger is partially hidden behind a bank of trees. The grave will soon be filled in. The vultures have stopped circling.
Time to stake my claim on the future.
Ophelia sinks into the passenger seat, and I face her. “Remember you asked me what I want to do with my life?”
She raises her eyebrows. “And you deflected by talking about how much work it’ll take to keep your dad’s business going.”
“Mm. Well, Vincent isn’t the right candidate for a takeover, but I think there’ll be a buyer somewhere who fits the bill. If there isn’t, I’m happy to gift the entire operation to Gregorie in return for substantial dividends. I really want no part of it.”
“If you’re sure.” Her hand clutches mine. “It’s your legacy too.”
“I’m sure.” Ophelia’s fingers are icy, and I rub them between my palms. “Anyway, I know the answer. It just needs your approval.”
“And what is it?”
I release her hands, and get out of the car, walking around, opening her door. Kneeling before her.
“Damien?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “What are you doing?”
“You’re a smart girl, Snowflake. Can’t you guess?” Before she answers, I take her hands, still cool under my touch. “Marry me.”
She stares, shock and a cautious smile in her expression. “It’s too soon. With everything you have going on with the company… and the police have only just stopped…” Her voice becomes firm. “Now isn’t the right time.”
“I don’t want to wait.” I take out the jewellery box, snapping it open so she can see the ring. It’s a pink diamond, in the same subtle colouring as her cheeks. “The wedding doesn’t need to be right away, but I don’t want another day to pass without my ring on your finger.”
“Caveman.”
“Like you didn’t know that already.”
I sink back on my heels as she takes the box from my hands, holding it at different angles so the gemstone sparkles.
“Not yet.” She snaps the box closed but doesn’t yet pass it back. “It’s too much.”
“Okay.” I shift tactics. This is now a negotiation. “How about we get engaged now, but hold off on the marriage for another year?”
“I’ll still be at uni.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure why that’s a deal breaker. What’re you doing there?”
“Studying until I’m exhausted, is what.” She laughs, shaking her head. “How about we wait five years? You still might grow sick of me.”
“Three years. That gives you time to finish your degree, plus six months of planning if you want a fancy wedding.”
Her nose wrinkles.
“We can’t leave it longer than that.” My tone turns deadly serious. “It mightn’t matter as much to you, but in three years we’ll be at peak physical attractiveness. Don’t you want our wedding album to put everyone else’s to shame?”
Ophelia bursts out laughing, still squeezing the ring box in her hand. “Three years?”
It’s still framed as a question, but all I hear is acquiescence.
“Done.” I shake her hand before she changes her mind and slip the ring onto her finger.
She twists it until the stone is centred. “It’s sized perfectly.”
“Because I measured your finger with a piece of string while you were sleeping.”
While she laughs, I lean in to kiss her. Her lips are soft and she responds with a hunger that surprises me, her hands clutching my lapels.
The kiss deepens, becoming more than the sealing of a deal. It’s a promise. A contract. I break away only long enough to collect her in my arms and deposit her in the back seat. My foot hooks the door shut, the world outside irrelevant.
“So, being a husband is what you want to do with your life?”
“Yeah. A househusband. Cooking, feeding you, buying your clothes… looking after the children.”
She snorts out a soft laugh. “And how many children do we have?”
“I thought one to start…”
I draw my fingers up her thigh, raising the hem of her sensible black dress, her skin quivering under my hands. This isn’t about sex, it’s about possession. Her claim on me just as deep as mine.
She arches against me, her breath hot on my neck, and the death and the cold and the fake solemnity of the graveside ritual are gone, replaced by the heat of her body.
My centre is calm and still and sure.
This is exactly where I’m meant to be.