Chapter 35
Stella
Summer came and went in a blink. The warm air that once clung to our skin has cooled into crisp fall mornings, making the windows fog and my bones ache in the best way. It’s the season of soft layers and cinnamon-scented everything.
I roll over and reach for Donovan, but the bed is empty. His side still holds the echo of his warmth, but he’s not there. I toss the covers off, my feet sinking into the plush carpet as I pad toward the bathroom.
The shower's running.
I nudge the door open and lean against the frame. Through the glass, I see him—water sliding down his skin, soap trailing behind. His hands move in a steady rhythm, lathering down his chest and over the ridges of muscle along his stomach. I watch him without a word.
It took a while for things to feel normal again.
Not broken—but bent. We didn't argue, didn't shout, but silence settled over us like fog.
Thick. Heavy. Waiting. Neither of us knew how to talk about the future without triggering a minefield of what-ifs.
About family. About the shape of what our life might become if we wanted different things.
But here we are—October 3rd—and somehow, we’re happy. Happier than we’ve been in months.
Today we’re picking up a few more fall decorations and heading to a college football game. His team’s playing in Virginia, and he’s practically buzzing about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this excited outside of sex or winning championships. The glow on his face—God, it’s addictive.
Later, as we walk through town, the leaves crunch beneath our boots.
I glance over at my husband, really look at him.
Blonde hair pushed back, blue eyes soft with laughter, that sharp, kissable jawline flexing when he smiles.
His arms stretch the sleeves of his hoodie, muscles taut and roped.
People stare—women stare—especially when we’re on the bike, but I just lean into him a little more.
He’s mine. This man is mine.
We’re steps away from the store when my phone rings—an unknown Arizona number.
I answer on instinct. “Hello?”
A man’s voice, calm and unfamiliar: “Good morning, is this Miss Stella Carrington?”
“This is Mrs. Stella Carrington. Who is this?” I ask, suspicion flickering behind my words.
I don’t remember what he said next.
Just static.
Then black.
When I come to, I'm moving—fast. The world is bright, loud, and spinning.
A paramedic presses gauze to my head.
Donovan’s voice cuts through the chaos, choked with panic. “Baby, it’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
I turn toward him, my limbs heavy and floating all at once. “Donovan? What… what happened?”
He grabs my hand, knuckles white around mine. His eyes are storm-dark.
“Do you not remember the call?” he asks, his voice barely holding steady.
“I remember answering,” I say slowly, “asking who it was… and then everything went black.”
Once we’re at the hospital, the doctors clean the cut on my head and give me a couple of stitches. They check for a concussion, shine lights in my eyes, and ask me what year it is. I passed all the tests.
Once I’m cleared, we head home.
Donovan still hasn’t told me what the phone call was about, no matter how many times I’ve begged him to. He just keeps squeezing my hand, whispering, “Soon.”
When we step into the apartment, I slip off my shoes. Ansel and Blythe are in the living room, pacing like caged animals. They stop the moment they see me.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask, forcing a lightness I don’t feel. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I let out a small, nervous giggle. No one laughs.
They just stare at me like I might break if they breathe wrong.
Donovan gently leads me to the couch. Ansel and Blythe sit on either side of me, close enough that I can feel the tension radiating off them. Donovan sits on the edge of the coffee table across from me and takes my hands in his.
His thumbs trace slow circles over my knuckles as he breathes in—then out—like he’s steadying both of us.
“Stella, baby…” he starts, voice raw. “The call this morning—it was about an accident.”
I blink.
“Your parents were driving to Northern Arizona,” he continues, struggling to get the words out. “Their car was found off the side of the mountain. They lost control on one of the winding roads.”
He pauses, a deep breath trembling in his chest.
“I’m so sorry, baby. They’re gone.”
“No.”
The word rips out of me like a wound.
I shoot up from the couch, heart pounding, every nerve in my body on fire. “No. It isn’t them. That’s not them.” My voice breaks. “They always make that drive—Papa could do it in his sleep.”
My legs buckle.
I collapse to the floor, my hands flying to my face as a sob tears through me. Loud. Ugly. Endless.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no. It can’t be them.”
And then I break.
Right there on the living room floor, in front of the people I love most, with my husband holding me and my friends anchoring the pieces of me that are already starting to float away.
My world collapses.
My parents are gone—both of them.
Gone.
The Arizona heat hits differently. It’s dry, bone-deep, and the air feels heavy even without humidity. Donovan’s parents are waiting for us just outside baggage claim, standing quietly by his dad’s truck. They don’t say anything right away—just open their arms.
His mother hugs me like I’m breakable.
His father says my name with a kind of softness I’ve never heard from him before.
I don’t cry. I think I did all my crying on the floor in Virginia. Now, I’m just… empty.
The ride to Agave Hills is silent.
The desert rushes by out the window—flat and endless, golden and cruel. Nothing looks familiar, even though I know this road by heart. I could still draw the skyline from memory, but it doesn’t feel like home. Not without them in it.
We pull up to my parents’ house—my house now—just before sunset. The place has always felt too big. Too many rooms, too many echoes. But now it feels hollow. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to walk through the door. Waiting for laughter, footsteps, and music.
But no one’s coming back.
Donovan opens the front door and helps carry the bags in. Everything inside is still pristine—my mother’s vases. My father’s coat is still hanging by the door. I almost expect to hear her heels clicking across the tile or his laugh echoing from the back patio.
Instead, it’s just silence. Polished. Perfect. Dead.
I sleep for fourteen hours.
The next morning, I wake to the sound of the doorbell.
Donovan is already up. I hear his voice at the front door, then footsteps approaching the sitting room where I’m curled up with a blanket and a mug of untouched tea.
“Stell,” he says gently. “It’s Preston.”
My stomach turns.
Preston Langford, my father's best friend and my family’s attorney. He’s been on retainer since before I was born. Always in a three-piece suit. Always with a pen in his pocket and a perfectly folded handkerchief in his coat.
He walks in like he doesn’t want to be here either, hat in hand and sorrow written in the lines of his face.
“Miss Carrington,” he says softly, then corrects himself, “Mrs. Carrington. I’m so deeply sorry for your loss.”
I nod. My throat is too tight to speak.
He sits across from me and opens a slim leather folder. Everything about him is composed. Respectful. Efficient. It almost makes me feel like I can breathe again—until he starts talking.
“Your parents made thorough arrangements in the event of their passing,” he says.
“Everything is prepaid. The caskets were custom-designed five years ago by your father. The flowers, music, and readings—your mother selected them personally. There is nothing you need to organize. All that remains is your presence.”
I swallow hard. “They planned it all?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, offering a faint smile. “As your mother put it, 'The Carrington' name deserves a farewell as carefully crafted as the lives we’ve built.”
I laugh. It's small and painful. But it’s something.
Preston hesitates, then adds, “There is also the matter of the will and a personal letter from your father… but we can speak on that after the service. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, gathers the folder, and stands to leave. “The funeral will be held this Friday. Private, as requested. The chapel is ready. I’ll have a car pick you up.”
After he leaves, I sit in the silence, staring into my tea.
They planned every detail.
Down to the last flower.
And somehow that hurts worse than anything else.
Like they knew, like some part of them saw it coming and prepared for a world without them in it.