Chapter 32
“We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, For the sake of auld lang syne”
The last of the mourners shuffled across the frost-bitten cemetery grass, their black coats stark against the December snow. Greyson watched them stream toward the parking lot in clusters—some dabbing at red-rimmed eyes, others speaking in hushed tones that carried on the bitter wind.
Mayor Locke helped his wife navigate the icy path between headstones. Ralph Peabody actually wore a proper suit. Even Jocelyn Collins kept her commentary tasteful and reserved, not bickering with Soren once.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Half of Hideaway Harbor had shown up to celebrate Magnus Hawthorne, standing in the bitter cold, paying their respects to the urn holding a man who’d never bothered to learn most of their names.
But that’s what small towns did. They came together in love and support during the good times and the bad. And for the first time in a long time, Greyson felt the extraordinary affection of his neighbors, each one offering condolences and comments that reminded him their mother was still missed.
They didn’t show up for Magnus. They showed up for Sable and her boys. That’s how powerful his mother’s legacy was. It outlived his father’s fortune and stretched beyond his dark shadow. Her goodness was the real source of richness in their lives, and Greyson saw that today more than ever before.
Greyson pulled his coat tighter, watching his brothers outlast the crowd.
Logan wiped his nose with the back of his gloved hand.
Soren stood, statue-still, jaw clenched against whatever threatened to crack his composure.
They’d held it together through the service, through the endless parade of handshakes and hollow condolences, but exhaustion weighed on all of them like wet wool.
After Christmas, the three of them would take a ship out and fulfill the last of his father’s wishes, scattering what remained of his ashes at sea.
Wren’s fingers found his, squeezing gently through their gloves.
She’d been his anchor through every brutal moment—the viewing, the eulogy he’d somehow managed to deliver, the final prayers as they lowered their father into frozen ground.
Even now, she radiated the kind of quiet strength that made him believe he might survive this.
The funeral director approached with practiced sympathy. “The limo’s ready when you are, Mr. Hawthorne. No rush.”
Greyson nodded, taking one last look at the grave site.
Magnus was gone. Despite everything—all the years of silence, all the ways they’d failed each other, all the words that would never be spoken—Greyson knew they’d been good sons.
Imperfect, maybe. Stubborn as hell, definitely.
But they’d loved their impossible father anyway.
The black limousine waited with its engine running, exhaust clouds rising like incense in the frigid air. Logan climbed in first, then Soren. Wren squeezed in beside him, and Greyson took the seat across from his brothers, needing to see their faces, needing to know they were all still here.
The driver pulled away from the cemetery in respectful silence, tires crunching over the salt-scattered road. Through tinted windows, Greyson watched the town scroll past, shop windows still dressed for Christmas, life continuing its relentless march forward while theirs had ground to a halt.
Love was a complicated son of a bitch, perhaps more so in death. Sometimes, there just wasn’t enough time to figure it out. But he was learning.
His gaze naturally settled on Wren as she sat angelically in the dim interior. Light filtered through her hair. The gentle curve of her mouth and the steady rise and fall of her breathing settled him in ways he couldn’t explain.
His future wife.
He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that what he felt for Wren transcended every petty thing that had come before.
The thought still caught him off guard, sent something warm spreading through his chest despite the cold seeping through the windows.
As long as he had her by his side, he could handle anything.
They’d figure it out together—the business, the inheritance, all the complicated mess Magnus had left behind.
But first, they’d get through today. They’d stand in their father’s house surrounded by casseroles and sympathy, accept more condolences, and somehow find a way to live in a new world without giants and tyrants.
The limousine turned onto the familiar tree-lined drive, and Greyson’s chest tightened.
Cars already packed the circular driveway—neighbors, business associates, distant relatives who’d materialized for the occasion.
Smoke curled from the chimneys, and warm light spilled from every window, transforming the austere mansion into something almost welcoming.
Their patriarch and his legacy was gone, but the house still stood. The sense of family still survived. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
The car glided to a stop beside the front steps, and Greyson took a deep breath, preparing to face whatever came next. His brothers exited, and Wren waited.
“If you’re not ready for this, we can wait.”
He met her stare and nodded. “I’m ready.”
She slid out of the car, and he followed.
The house buzzed with the peculiar energy of a wake—hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of nervous laughter, the clink of silverware against china, the soft shuffle of feet across Persian rugs.
Greyson stood near the fireplace, watching it all unfold like a movie he wasn’t quite part of.
The dining room table groaned under the weight of casserole dishes and sympathy offerings.
Tuna noodle, green bean, something that might have been lasagna but could just as easily have been cardboard smothered in cheese.
The scent of comfort food mixed with the lingering pine from their Christmas tree, creating an oddly festive atmosphere for such a somber occasion.
Wren moved through the crowd effortlessly, accepting condolences with genuine grace, directing traffic toward the buffet, somehow remembering everyone’s names and asking after their families.
She’d changed from her funeral dress into something softer, a charcoal sweater that brought out the gold in her hair.
Every gesture was natural, every smile authentic despite the grief shrouding the last few days.
How had he gotten so fucking lucky?
She appeared at his elbow with a plate piled high with food he didn’t want. “Eat,” she commanded softly, pressing the dish into his hands.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You need to eat something.” Her fingers brushed his wrist, warm and insistent. “Please, Grey. For me.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He found an empty chair against the wall, settling in to pick at Mrs. Henderson’s famous potato salad while keeping one eye on the room.
Logan held court near the bar, regaling some old high school friends with a story that actually drew genuine laughter.
Greyson scanned the crowd for Soren, expecting to find him working the room with corporate precision, shaking hands and accepting business cards, but his middle brother was nowhere to be found.
A movement near the hallway caught his attention. Jocelyn emerged from the powder room with the kind of expression that immediately set off alarm bells—eyes darting left and right, smoothing down her skirt, looking for all the world like she’d just committed some minor crime.
Greyson frowned, taking another bite of potato salad as he watched her slink toward the kitchen with exaggerated casualness.
A moment later, the powder room door opened again. Soren stepped out, and Greyson nearly choked on a lump of egg and potato.
His brother’s usually immaculate hair stuck up at odd angles, his tie hung loose around his neck, and his shirt was wrinkled in ways that suggested it had been hastily tugged.
Pausing in the doorway, Soren straightened his cuffs and glanced up, his gaze freezing when it collided with Greyson’s no doubt stunned expression.
Color draining from his rigid face as realization dawned.
He shot a quick glance toward the kitchen where Jocelyn had disappeared, then back to Greyson with the desperate look of a man caught red-handed.
Very slowly, very deliberately, his brother pressed a finger to his lips, his expression pleading.
Greyson shoveled another forkful of potato salad into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He gave his brother the smallest nod—a promise that this particular family secret was safe—and watched Soren’s shoulders sag with relief before he melted back into the crowd of mourners.
Greyson returned to his potato salad, unable to shake the grin tugging at his mouth.
“The food must be good. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile today,” Wren said, handing him a rocks glass of what looked like his favorite bourbon.
He was tempted to tell her what he saw, but decided to keep his word to Soren. Jocelyn was her best friend and would likely tell her soon enough, if she hadn’t already.
The house gradually emptied as the afternoon wore on, guests filtering out with final hugs and promises to check in soon. Greyson found himself stationed by the front door, accepting final handshakes and murmured condolences with the kind of autopilot politeness that grief demanded.
He was helping Mrs. Pemberley with her coat when he spotted a familiar figure in the foyer, bundling into a cashmere overcoat. Clayton, his father’s attorney, must have flown in from Boston that morning.
“Pardon me, Mrs. P,” Greyson said, exiting the hall to speak to the tall, silver-haired man who had handled Hawthorne business for the better part of three decades.
“Clayton.” Greyson extended his hand as he approached the older man. “Thank you for making the trip. I know Dad would have appreciated it.”
Clayton’s handshake was firm, his expression genuinely sorrowful. “Your father was… an impressive man. Complicated, certainly, but impressive nonetheless. He built something that will outlast all of us.”
“Thank you. Impressive’s a kind way to put it.
” They both chuckled as if knowing exactly what they weren’t saying out loud.
“We’ll call your office sometime next week to go over whatever needs signing.
” Greyson managed a tired smile. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, since Dad changed the will, but it’s a shame it couldn’t go to my brothers.
They wanted the company and deserved it, but.
..” He shrugged. “Dad was just that kind of prick.”
Clayton’s brows knitted together, confusion clouding his features. “I’m sorry, what change?”
“The clause he added. About divesting the company if one of us didn’t settle down and get married before he passed.” Greyson studied the lawyer’s face, and something cold settled in his stomach. “The clause he added around Thanksgiving.”
The confusion on Clayton’s face deepened.
“Greyson, I think there’s been some misunderstanding.
The will hasn’t changed in years. Your father never contacted me about any modifications.
” He adjusted his coat, speaking with the careful precision of someone delivering important news.
“You and your brothers will inherit everything equally, just as we discussed years ago. If you want to sell your shares to Soren or Logan, you have every right to do so.”
The world tilted sideways.
Greyson’s mouth opened, then closed. The sounds of the house—distant conversations, the clink of dishes being cleared—faded to white noise as the implications crashed over him like a rogue wave.
No change. No clause. No marriage requirement.
His father had lied. Manipulated them. Played them like chess pieces right up until the end.
“Greyson?” Clayton’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you all right?”
He managed a nod, though his knees felt suspiciously unsteady. “Yes. I’m... that’s good news. Thank you for clarifying.”
Clayton studied him with sharp eyes, clearly sensing there was more to this story. But he was too professional to pry. Instead, he clapped a gentle hand on Greyson’s shoulder and offered a tired smile.
“Merry Christmas, son. Take care of yourself.”
Greyson stood frozen in the doorway long after Clayton’s car disappeared down the drive, his mind reeling with the weight of what he’d just learned. In the distance, he could hear Wren’s laughter drifting from the kitchen, warm and familiar. His brothers’ laughter followed.
In that moment, they won. Not because the inheritance withstood their father’s games, but because they were happy, with or without it. Like their mother, they didn’t need anything as long as they had each other.
He followed the sound of his family, finding them gathered around the granite island, completely unaware that their world had just shifted on its axis.
Again.
Wren smiled and pulled him close. He decided to hold onto this news until Christmas morning—a gift to his brothers. And giving it would be a gift to him.