Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
JULIE
The funeral is held at St. James Cathedral, a massive stone building in downtown Seattle that can seat over a thousand people. Dean would have wanted something grand. Something that made a statement. He’s certainly getting it with this.
The pews are packed. Business executives in dark suits. Politicians. Tech moguls. People whose names I recognize from the news. The front rows are reserved for family, which means Asher, Devon and me. We sit in the first pew on the left side, Devon between us.
She's wearing a black dress that fits perfectly, tailored and expensive.
Longer than the one she was in the night I met her, but not by much.
Her hair is pulled back in a low bun, her face pale and blank.
She hasn't cried since we picked her up from the mansion the night they died. I suspect she's in shock.
Asher sits rigid beside her, his jaw tight.
He's wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie.
He looks like he's carved from stone. People keep approaching him before the service starts, offering condolences, shaking his hand.
He responds with the same flat "thank you" each time, his expression never changing.
I watch him from Devon's other side, trying to understand what's happening inside his head. His father is dead. The man who controlled every aspect of his life is gone. And his son looks like he's attending a board meeting.
The service begins. A priest speaks about Dean's accomplishments, his philanthropy, his vision.
He doesn't mention that Dean was cruel. That he dismissed grief as weakness.
That he married a woman in secret and excluded his own son and her daughter from the ceremony.
Devon's hands are folded in her lap. She doesn't move.
Doesn't react. Just stares straight ahead.
When the eulogies begin, Asher stands and walks to the podium. I didn't know he was planning to speak. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and smooths it out on the lectern.
"My father was a genius," he begins. His voice is steady, professional. "He built our company from the ground up. He was brilliant, driven, and uncompromising in his vision. He taught me that success requires sacrifice. That weakness is a choice. That family is both a responsibility and a legacy.”
He pauses, looking down at the paper. Then he folds it back up. "He was my father," Asher says quietly. "We’ll all miss him." He walks back to the pew and sits down. Devon reaches for his hand, and he lets her take it.
After the service, there's a reception at a hotel ballroom downtown.
More people. More condolences. More handshakes and hollow words.
Devon stays close to Asher, her hand on his arm, her face still blank.
I stand beside them, playing the role of supportive wife, smiling when appropriate, thanking people for coming.
By the time the reception ends, it's nearly six in the evening. We drive to Dean's mansion to pick up some more of Devon's things. She's sitting in the back seat, staring out the window. Asher drives, his hands tight on the wheel.
"We need to start making arrangements to move into my father's house now that the funeral is behind us," Asher announces.
It’s like he just shot a cannon into the car. I swear my ears are ringing from shock. "I'm sorry, what?"
"There are three of us now. If we move into the big house, there's more space. It makes sense."
Our house is nearly four thousand square feet. We have plenty of room. I turn to face him fully. "Why would we move into your father's house?"
"Because I'm now the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world. Because there's more space. Because Devon's already settled there. Her things are there. It would be easier for her."
Unease ripples up my spine. What he just said about being the CEO, the way he said it, was very disconcerting.
"Asher, I'm not moving into that... that goddamn thing."
He glances at me, surprised. "Why not?"
"Because it's cold and massive and imposing. It's too big. I don't want to live there."
"It's just a house, Julie."
"It's not just a house. It's an ugly-as-hell behemoth and I don't want to live in it. Not only that, I won't. This is not negotiable."
Silence stretches between us. Then Asher nods. "Okay, okay. Fine. We'll stay in your—in our—house. We’ll all just shoehorn ourselves in there."
He makes it sound like we live in a tiny home or that Devon is going to need to live in a closet under the stairs.
Neither could be farther from the truth.
I wonder if he's already imagining himself in that mansion, sitting in his father's office, taking over the empire. And now, what’s been said cannot be unsaid and I'm fucking terrified that he wants to go down a path I can't – and won’t– follow.
We pull into the driveway of the mansion, and Devon gets out to pack a few bags. Asher follows her inside. I stay in the car, staring at the massive stone facade, the perfectly manicured lawn, the fountain in the center of the circular driveway. I will never, ever live here. It would break me.
This house cost sixty-five million dollars and it has every amenity you can think of, but it's not a home.
I could never feel comfortable here. Twenty minutes later, Asher and Devon come back out.
Devon is carrying a duffel bag and a backpack.
Asher has a suitcase. We load everything into the trunk and drive home.
Our home. The multi-million dollar so-called modest house on Lake Sammamish that Dean thought was subpar and that, apparently, his son thinks is small.
Devon has been sleeping in the guest room at the end of the hall.
It's a beautiful room, with a queen bed and an en suite bathroom and a view of the lake.
Before now, she hasn't settled. But now, she'll need to.
I help her unpack while Asher makes phone calls downstairs. She moves through the motions mechanically, hanging clothes in the closet, setting her toiletries on the bathroom counter. "If you need anything, just let me know," I say.
She nods. "Thank you, Julie. For letting me stay here."
"Of course. You're family."
She looks at me, and for a moment, something flickers in her expression.
Then it's gone, and she turns back to her suitcase.
I leave her alone and go downstairs. Asher is in the kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear.
He's talking to someone about the company, about board meetings and press releases.
I pour myself a glass of wine and sit at the island, listening.
When he finally hangs up, he looks exhausted.
"How are you doing?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Asher."
"I'm fine, Julie. This is all just a lot to handle."
"I know. But you don't have to do it all alone. I’m here. I’m with you."
He looks at me, and for a second, his eyes and expression carefully blank. "I'm okay. Really."
Every bit of my being knows that’s a lie.