32. Aria
THIRTY-TWO
Aria
Black doesn’t suit me. I know this with the certainty of someone raised to analyze every fabric, cut, and color against skin tone and social context. My father made sure I understood the importance of appearance from a young age.
Image is reality , he would say. The world sees what you show them.
Now, I stand before the mirror in funeral black, the dark fabric washing out my complexion, making me look as hollow as I feel. The dress is a designer piece, perfectly tailored, exactly what Marcus would have chosen for this occasion.
Perhaps that’s why I hate it so much.
“You don’t have to go.” Jon leans against the doorframe of my bedroom, watch already on his wrist, suit pressed to perfection.
“Yes, I do.” I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt. “The world is watching. Image is reality.”
The words taste bitter, echoes of Marcus’s endless lessons in the management of perception is reality .
But he wasn’t wrong about everything. The media is circling, waiting for the grieving daughter to make an appearance—or conspicuously avoid one.
Either way, they’ll craft a narrative I can’t control.
At least this way, I maintain the illusion of choice.
“Whatever you decide, I’m with you.” Jon steps behind me, his reflection appearing in the mirror beside mine. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the fabric of my dress.
The simple certainty in his voice steadies me. Jon doesn’t deal in manipulation or calculation. What you see is exactly what you get—a man of his word, solid as bedrock.
The opposite of the father I will bury.
“Thank you.” I lean slightly into his touch, drawing strength from the connection. “I need to see this through. For me, not for him.”
Jon nods, understanding what I mean without further explanation. Closure requires a witness. Without seeing the casket lowered into the ground, some part of me might always wonder if Marcus is truly gone.
If the monster wearing my father’s face is really dead.
“The car’s waiting downstairs.” Jon’s hand slides around to my waist, turning me gently to face him. “Ready?”
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway, reaching for the folder that hasn’t left my sight in three days. The one containing the truth about Marcus, about my mother, about the family legacy built on blood and lies.
“Leave it here.” Jon’s hand covers mine, stopping me from taking it.
“But—”
“Today is about burial and closure.” His eyes hold mine, steady and certain. “The past will still be here when you get back.”
He’s right, of course. Carrying physical evidence of Marcus’s crimes to his funeral would be both unnecessary and unwise. The media would notice, questions would follow, and the carefully crafted narrative would unravel before I’m ready to deal with the fallout.
“Let’s go.” I release the folder, squaring my shoulders.
The cemetery gleams with old money and careful landscaping.
Marble angels and granite monuments stretch across manicured lawns, and the elite of generations are laid to rest with appropriate grandeur.
The Holbrook family plot occupies prime real estate near the center, naturally.
Even in death, Marcus secured the best position, the most prestigious address.
I stand beside the polished casket, Jon a silent presence at my shoulder. Around us gather the expected crowd—business associates, political connections, social elite.
Not friends.
Marcus Holbrook didn’t have friends, only assets and liabilities.
Who standing here is a part of his crimes? Part of the dirty underbelly of my father’s work?
The minister speaks of a man I thought I knew—devoted father, community leader, philanthropist. Each platitude scrapes against the raw truth I now carry. The Marcus being eulogized never existed. He was a carefully constructed fiction, a mask worn over the face of a monster.
I keep my expression neutral; years of social training have served me well. Inside, questions circle like vultures. Did any of them know? The board members, the politicians, the socialites? Did they glimpse behind the mask, or were they as deceived as I was?
“And now, Marcus’s daughter would like to say a few words.”
The minister’s voice penetrates my thoughts, calling me forward. This part wasn’t in the program. I didn’t prepare remarks. Didn’t plan to speak.
But Jon’s hand presses gently against my back, reassuring. I move to the podium on autopilot, social training once again carrying me through.
The crowd blurs before me, faces indistinct behind designer sunglasses and carefully managed expressions of grief. What do I say about a father who wasn’t who I thought he was? About a man whose love came wrapped in control, whose protection was just another form of possession?
“My father…” I begin, voice carrying clearly across the gathering. “My father believed in legacies.”
The words come from some place beyond conscious thought, truth shaping itself into language that won’t shatter the delicate social contract of this moment.
“He taught me that what we leave behind matters more than what we take with us. That the world remembers how we shaped it, for better or worse.”
Heads nod. The sentiment is appropriately vague, suitable for engraving on expensive stone.
“I stand here today not just as Marcus Holbrook’s daughter, but as someone shaped by his vision, his determination, his unflinching pursuit of what he believed was right.”
No lies, just carefully selected truths. Marcus did shape me. Did pursue what he believed was right. That his vision was corrupted, his determination monstrous, his pursuit stained with blood—these are details I keep to myself.
“The legacy he leaves is complex.” My gaze sweeps across the crowd, noting which eyes slide away from mine. “As all legacies are. As all lives are.”
A murmur ripples through the gathering. This deviates from the expected platitudes. Good. Let them wonder. Let them question what I know, what I might say next.
“I will carry forward what serves life, what builds rather than destroys, what illuminates rather than obscures.” My voice strengthens with each word, conviction replacing performance. “That is how I choose to honor not just his memory, but my path forward.”
I step back from the podium, the brief eulogy complete. Not what they expected, perhaps, but nothing they can quote as scandalous in tomorrow’s papers. A eulogy worthy of Marcus’s daughter—poised, controlled, revealing exactly what I choose to reveal and nothing more.
The service continues. Prayers are said. The casket begins its mechanical descent into the ground. I take the white rose offered by the funeral director, its petals perfect and unblemished.
Another illusion of purity.
As the casket disappears from view, I drop the rose, watching it land with quiet finality. Whatever Marcus was to me—father, monster, teacher, jailer—that chapter ends today. What I carry forward will be my choice, not his legacy.
Jon’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with quiet strength. We stand together as the crowd begins to disperse, mourners moving toward waiting cars with a solemnity befitting the occasion.
“Ms. Holbrook.” A man approaches, hand extended. I recognize him vaguely—one of Marcus’s board members. “Beautiful words. Your father would have been proud.”
The platitude scrapes against raw nerves. Marcus would have been proud of the performance, the control, and the careful management of public perception. He would have been proud that I learned his lessons well enough to hide the ugliest truths even as I acknowledge them.
“Thank you.” I accept his hand briefly, posture perfect, smile measured. The politician’s daughter, the banker’s heir, the role I’ve played my entire life.
More people approach. More condolences are offered. Connections are reaffirmed. Business cards are discreetly exchanged. Even at a funeral, networking never stops. Marcus taught me that too.
Only, I have the might of Guardian HRS behind me. We’re cataloging everything. Tracing everything. No stone unturned. We will bring down what my father created.
The evil. The lies. The suffering. The victims. I intend to raze it to the ground, one smile, one handshake at a time.
Throughout it all, Jon remains beside me, a physical anchor in the sea of social performance. His hand at the small of my back, occasional whispers asking if I need a break, water, or escape.
I need it all, but now isn’t the time to rest.
When the last mourner finally departs, leaving us alone beside the grave, I allow my shoulders to drop. The performance ends, the mask slips, exhaustion floods in.
“You did well.” Jon’s voice carries quiet pride.
“I did what was expected.” I stare at the hole in the ground that now contains Marcus Holbrook. “The perfect daughter, even at the end.”
“No.” Jon turns me to face him, hands gentle on my shoulders. “You did what was necessary. There’s a difference.”
The distinction matters, though I’m too tired to fully process why. Jon sees beyond the performance to the purpose beneath. Understands that today wasn’t about honoring Marcus but about witnessing an ending.
“Take me home.” My voice cracks slightly, the first sign of the emotions I’ve held at bay throughout the service. “Not to his penthouse. To the shop.”
Jon nods, understanding immediately. The penthouse was Marcus’s domain, filled with his presence, his taste, his control. The shop is mine—the life I built for myself, the space where I exist as simply Aria, not Marcus Holbrook’s daughter.
As we walk toward the waiting car, I don’t look back at the grave. There’s nothing there for me now. Nothing but earth covering a stranger I thought I knew.