Chapter 36
Stella
The hearse pulls up to the chapel just before noon.
Everything is white.
The sky, the marble steps, the flowers flanking the entrance. White roses. Casablanca lilies. Cream orchids are woven into garlands that hang heavy with scent. They remind me of my mother’s favorite perfume—something soft and expensive that lingered in every room after she left it.
I stand outside the car for a moment, frozen. Donovan is at my side, his hand on my lower back, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t had to. I think I stopped hearing words days ago.
The chapel doors open. A hush falls over the small crowd waiting inside. Everyone dressed in black. Everyone is looking at me like I’m porcelain about to crack.
They’re probably not wrong.
The seats are filled with familiar faces—people who’ve been circling our family for decades.
Business partners. Board members. Distant cousins.
Former teachers. The florist who’s done every Carrington event since I was seven.
All were invited because my mother planned this funeral like she planned every holiday—with lists, and backup lists, and gold-trimmed envelopes she kept in a fireproof box.
There is elegance in every goodbye. That’s what she always said. It sounded so polished on our company letterhead—now it feels like a curse. Because they really meant it. And they made damn sure even their own exit would be breathtaking.
I walk in slowly, my heels soundless on the polished stone. The chapel ceiling is arched and open, the stained glass filtering in a soft golden glow. It makes everything feel like it’s suspended—like this day, this hour, this grief, will never end.
Their caskets sit at the front.
Mahogany. Gold accents. These are the same ones my father designed five years ago. I remember walking into the workshop and seeing him sketching them on graph paper as if it were just another Tuesday.
“Someone’s got to do it right,” he told me.
They did it right.
Too right.
I take my seat in the front pew.
Someone hands me a program—thick, creamy paper. My mother’s handwriting is on the cover. A note she wrote to Preston when she finalized everything: If this finds you, then we’re gone. Please take care of our girl. Let her be the daughter today—not the legacy.
I grip the paper so tightly that it bends in my hands.
The service begins.
Soft piano. A string quartet was tucked to the side of the altar.
The officiant’s voice is low, reverent, and respectful.
He speaks about legacy, about love, and about devotion that outlives the body.
He tells a story about my father giving away suits to grieving husbands who couldn’t afford funeral clothes.
Not only that, but he mentions my mother’s relentless eye for beauty and how she once redesigned a grieving family’s memorial cards because they “deserved something that looked like love, not loss.”
People nod. Some weep.
I sit still.
Because if I move—if I blink too long or breathe too deep—I'll fall apart.
The eulogies come next. Preston reads first. Then, my father’s business partner. Then, a friend of my mother’s from her garden club.
They all speak like my parents were myths. Untouchable. Unshakable.
But they were real.
They were mine.
When the officiant asks if anyone else would like to speak, there’s a long pause. I don’t stand.
Donovan gently squeezes my hand, but I can’t even look at him. My body is made of glass and grief and nothing else.
A few moments pass.
Then I rise.
I don’t remember walking to the podium, but suddenly I’m there, the entire chapel waiting.
I grip the sides of the lectern and stare down at the paper in front of me. It’s blank. I didn’t write a speech. I couldn’t.
So I just speak.
“I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” I whisper. “I don’t want to.”
I swallow hard.
“You weren’t perfect. You were late to my art galleries. You forgot to pick up dry cleaning. You made rules I hated and asked questions I didn’t want to answer. But you were mine. You were my parents.”
My voice cracks.
“You taught me how to work. How to protect my name. How to lead and how to love. You taught me to show up even when it hurts.”
I pause, breathing shallow and sharp.
“And now I have to show up for this. For this.”
My fingers curl inward.
“You told me you had everything planned. And you did. Of course you did. But you didn’t plan for what I’m supposed to do after. You didn’t tell me how to wake up without hearing your voices. Or how to come back to the house without smelling your cologne and crying like a child.”
I let the silence hold.
“I love you. I don’t know how to do this without you. But I’ll try.”
I step down before I can shatter.
When the final notes of the string quartet fade into quiet, the caskets are wheeled out—one at a time. I follow them with my eyes, but I don’t stand. I can’t.
Donovan helps me to my feet. My knees buckle, just a little. He catches me. Wraps me up in his arms like I might float away.
I don’t cry until we’re alone in the car.
And when I do, it’s not quiet.
It’s not graceful.
It’s every goodbye I didn’t want to say—torn from me like ribs from my chest.