Chapter 12
The sickly sweet scent of white lilies filled the chilly air of the Morumbi Cemetery’s funeral parlor.
It was the same scent that, not so long ago, had wafted on the sea breeze on my wedding day.
The macabre irony of that scent twisted my stomach with every breath, a cruel reminder of how life can turn paradise into hell in a matter of hours.
I stood just a few steps away from the coffin, made of fine wood and finished with dark varnish. My body felt as though it were made of lead, held up only by the stiffness of my black suit and a massive dose of painkillers I’d swallowed without water before leaving home.
My eyes were fixed on my mother’s face.
The funeral home’s makeup artists had done an impeccable job of concealing the marks of the fall’s brutality.
Her skin was pale but serene. Her hair was perfectly arranged, and the dark silk dress covered her neck where the bones had been broken.
My mother looked merely asleep. Yet the absolute silence that emanated from her—the absence of that incisive voice that had always guided my steps and shaped my empire—was overwhelming proof that I had lost her forever.
Devastation consumed me from the inside out.
Grief was not merely sadness; it was a physical pain that tore at my insides, an unbearable weight on my chest that prevented me from breathing properly.
I was burying the woman who gave me life, the matriarch who had fought against everything and everyone to keep our name at the top.
All around me, the hall was packed. S?o Paulo’s elite, shareholders, politicians, and “friends” of the family formed a sea of dark suits and black haute couture dresses.
It was a social circus of mourning. I could feel the furtive glances, the whispers disguised behind gloved hands.
They weren’t there just to offer condolences, but for the scandal.
The tragic death of the imposing Eleonora Vasconcelos and the glaring absence of my new wife were the main course at that banquet of vultures.
I felt a light, almost ghostly touch on my left arm.
Júlia was standing beside me.
Although I had sent her away from my office, she hadn’t backed down.
Like a true heiress trained for high-society crises, Júlia swallowed my rejection and took control of the situation behind the scenes.
She had called the funeral home, coordinated security at the cemetery to keep the press at bay, chosen the wreaths, and organized the catering service that served coffee and water to the guests.
I didn’t have the strength to stop her. My energy had been drained to the very last drop.
“Have some water, Eduardo,” she murmured, holding out a crystal glass toward me. Her voice was soft and measured, the perfect embodiment of the ideal partner in times of crisis. “You look pale. You need to stay on your feet.”
“I don’t want to, Júlia. Thank you,” I replied, my voice hoarse and rough, without taking my eyes off my mother’s face.
She didn’t insist. She simply took a step back, remaining faithfully in my shadow.
With every person who approached to give me a cold hug and murmur about fake nightmares, Júlia intervened with impressive skill.
She thanked them on my behalf, explained that I was on strong medication, and deflected the awkward questions with polite answers.
“Eduardo, I’m so sorry. Your mother was a legend,” said one of the bank’s directors, shaking my hand firmly.
His eyes scanned the room before returning to me, a morbid curiosity gleaming in his pupils.
“It was a terrible tragedy. I heard that your wife… well, that the authorities are investigating.”
My jaw clenched. Blood boiled in my veins, but before I could tell the man to go to hell in the middle of my mother’s wake, Júlia stepped forward.
“This is a time for mourning and respect, Roberto,” Júlia cut in, her tone elegant but firm as steel. “The police are handling the details. The focus today is on honoring Eleonora’s memory. We appreciate your presence.”
The director’s face tightened; he nodded and quickly stepped away.
I should have been grateful. Júlia was serving as the shield I didn’t have the strength to raise. She was carrying out the plan my mother had always dreamed of for us. From the outside, we looked like the perfect high-society couple dealing with a tragedy.
But on the inside, I was in ruins.
While Júlia kept the onlookers at bay, the ghost of doubt that had begun to haunt me in the office returned to whisper in my mind. Júlia’s efficiency—the way she fit so perfectly into that chaos—stood in stark contrast to Maria Rita’s raw panic and visceral despair.
Where is she now?
The thought invaded my mind for the thousandth time, like a poisoned splinter. The storm had battered S?o Paulo all night long. The image of my wife lying on the sidewalk, begging for mercy, clashed with the reality of that heated room filled with expensive flowers.
I wanted to hate her with all my might. I needed her to be the one to blame to justify the monster I had become the night before. However, as the priest recited the final prayers and the funeral home staff prepared to close the casket, guilt tightened around my throat.
I took a faltering step back, clutching my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
“Eduardo?” Júlia grabbed my arm, her expression finally showing genuine concern. “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?”
“I… I need some air,” I gasped, pulling away from her touch.
“The procession is about to begin; you can’t leave.”
“Let go of me, Júlia!” My voice came out a little louder than allowed by the unspoken rules of that setting, drawing a few shocked glances.
I ignored everyone. I turned my back on the coffin, on Júlia, on the vultures in suits, and strode blindly toward the glass doors of the hall. I pushed the handles and stepped out into the cemetery’s outer courtyard.
The icy morning wind hit my sweaty face. I braced both hands against the stone wall and dragged in a ragged breath. The tears I could no longer contain finally burst forth. It wasn’t just grief for my mother. It was the terrifying realization that my entire life lay in ruins.
I had lost my mother, and if my belated intuition was correct, I had also cast the only woman I had ever loved onto the unforgiving streets of S?o Paulo, washing my hands of her with the same repulsive prejudice I had so often condemned in society. I was completely alone, trapped in my own abyss.