Page 31 of The Vows He Buried
“You’re wrong,” I said, my voice clear and final, echoing in the opulent, silent office. “I already have everything I need.”
I walked out, closing the door softly behind me, leaving her alone in her cold, marble tomb. I didn't need to see her face to know what was on it. It was the dawning, horrified realization that she had not been fighting a lamb. She had been fighting a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And she had just discovered, far too late, that the wolf had sharper teeth.
The power had shifted. Not in a courtroom, not in a newspaper headline, but right here, in the heart of her own empire. I hadwalked into the lion’s den, and the lion had been the one to blink.
Chapter 21: The Funeral
The call came on a Thursday morning, a week after my confrontation with Evelyn. It was Jasper. His voice was hollow, devoid of all emotion, a flat line in the landscape of my new life. “He’s gone, Vannah.”
Just three words. Three words to end a world.
Daniel Blake, my father, my hero, my quiet, unwavering champion, had slipped away in the pre-dawn quiet of his hospital room without ever waking up. The titan of tech, the man who had built an empire from a dream in his garage, was gone.
The days that followed were a surreal, muted blur. The world outside continued to spin—legal battles raged, Lynelle’s relaunch moved forward—but my own personal world had ground to a halt. The grief was not the wild, ragged storm I had experienced when he first fell into the coma. It was a different kind of pain. A heavy, suffocating blanket of quiet devastation. The pilot light of rage that had fueled me for weeks was reduced to a flicker, almost extinguished by the cold, vast ocean of my loss.
The funeral was a state affair. My father was not just a private citizen; he was a public figure, a legend in the tech world. St. Patrick’s Cathedral was filled to overflowing, a sea of black suits and somber faces. The front pews were for family and close friends. The rest of the cathedral was a carefully curated collection of the powerful and the influential: politicians, rival CEOs, Wall Street bankers, and a swarm of journalists penned into a designated area, their cameras like the eyes of vultures, waiting to capture a single tear, a single crack in our composure.
I was the center of it all. Jasper, my strong, steady brother, had crumbled. The weight of losing our father, on top of the immense pressure of running the company, had broken him. He moved through the preparations like a ghost, his eyes vacant, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. The mantle of responsibility, of being the public face of our family’s grief, fell to me.
I became a creature of pure, cold control. I wore a simple, impeccably tailored black dress of my own design, its severe lines a reflection of the iron will I had encased my heart in. My hair was pulled back. My face was a pale, serene mask. I greeted dignitaries, accepted condolences from people who had been trying to dismantle my father’s company just weeks before, and moved through the suffocating pageantry with a grace that felt like a betrayal of the screaming void inside me.
I was playing the part of the grieving daughter, but I was also the CEO, the protector of a legacy. Every handshake, every nod, every quiet word was a strategic move, a message to the watching world:The house of Blake is not broken. The line continues. We are still here.
Jasper was supposed to deliver the first eulogy. He walked to the pulpit, his steps unsteady. He gripped the sides of the lectern, his knuckles white. He looked out at the sea of faces, opened his mouth to speak, and a dry, ragged sob escaped. He shook his head, his composure completely shattering, and stumbled back to his seat, burying his face in his hands.
A wave of sympathetic murmurs went through the cathedral. The vultures in the press section raised their cameras.
Without a second thought, I stood up. I placed a hand on Jasper’s shaking shoulder, a silent promise, and walked to the pulpit. I smoothed out the piece of paper I held in my trembling hand—the eulogy I had written for myself, for the quiet moments at his bedside, never intending for it to be read aloud.
I looked out at the crowd, my gaze sweeping past the politicians and the rivals, past the curious and the cruel, and I spoke.
“My father, Daniel Blake, was a man of the future,” I began, my voice clear and steady, echoing in the cavernous, silent space. “He built an empire on his ability to see what was coming, to understand the currents of technology and progress before anyone else. He was a visionary. A genius. That is what the world will remember.”
I paused, taking a breath, the paper in my hand shaking almost imperceptibly.
“But that is not how I will remember him. I will remember him as the man who taught me how to ride a bicycle on a summer afternoon, who held on until I found my balance, and who cheered louder than anyone when I finally pedaled away on my own. I will remember him as the man who sat with me for hours while I cried over a broken heart, who didn’t offer advice, but simply sat in the silence and let me know I wasn’t alone.”
My voice began to tremble, and I gripped the lectern to steady myself. “He was the man who believed in my ‘silly little hobby’ of designing dresses, who bought my first painting, who framed my first successful business plan and hung it on his office wall like a trophy. He never saw me as an extension of himself. He saw me as my own person, and his greatest joy was in watching me build a world of my own.”
I looked down at Jasper, who was now watching me, tears streaming down his face, a look of profound gratitude in his eyes.
“He taught us that the greatest legacy you can leave is not the company you build or the wealth you accumulate, but the strength you instill in the people you love. He armed us, my brother and I, with his belief in us. He gave us the tools to fight our own battles, the courage to face our own storms. He is gone, but that legacy, that strength, is alive and well. It is in every line of code Jasper writes, and in every seam I sew. We are his legacy. And we will not fail him.”
I folded the paper, my eulogy finished. As I turned to walk back to my seat, my eyes scanned the crowd one last time. And then I saw him.
He was standing at the very back of the cathedral, near the heavy oak doors, a shadow among shadows. Maddox.
He was alone. He wore a dark, simple suit. He held a single white rose in his hand. He wasn’t looking at the pulpit or the casket. He was looking directly at me.
His face was a mask of profound, unguarded grief. There was no anger, no possessiveness, no strategy in his eyes. There was only the raw, aching pain of a man mourning someone he had loved and respected, and perhaps, someone he had failed. My father had seen him as a son, had tried to guide him, had believed in the man he could have been. And Maddox had come to pay his respects, not as a Vale, but as a man.
Our eyes locked for a long, silent moment across the crowded cathedral. The world seemed to fall away. It was just the two of us, two people bound by a shared history of love and loss, twoghosts at a funeral. I saw a universe of regret in his gaze, a silent apology for a thousand different sins.
I gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. It was not forgiveness. It was not an invitation. It was simply… a truce. A recognition of a shared grief that transcended our own personal war. For this one moment, in this sacred space, we were not enemies.
He returned the nod, his expression full of a pain that mirrored my own. Then, he turned and walked to the front of the cathedral, placing his single white rose on the casket before turning and leaving as silently as he had arrived, a ghost disappearing back into the shadows.
The rest of the service passed in a blur. After the cathedral, there was the burial at a small, private cemetery overlooking the Sound. It was a gray, overcast day, the sky weeping a soft, persistent drizzle. I stood under a black umbrella, a statue of composure, while they lowered my father’s casket into the earth.
