Forced Marriage To The Psychotic Billionaire ( Book 2)

Epilogue: The CherryFlower

A gentle breeze triggered rustling leaves beneath the feet of the somber crowd as they gathered in numbers to pay their respect to the dead. It looked like the sky was in cahoots with the mourners, with the cloud covered in hues of dull grey.

The circle formed by the one percent of Milan had a freshly dug grave in the middle and a casket adorned with the finest golden ensemble carefully lowered into it.

By the side of the cemetery filled with the remains of historical, unimaginable wealth stood a choir band. Their voices, backed by the wind, spurred the deepest sadness even in the hearts of a crowd like this. A gathering filled with a bunch of people with questionable wealth. These people had their heads bowed and their souls in a temporal state of disarray.

As the priest stood beside the casket to give an eulogy, a black Jeep Wrangler pulled over at the cemetery entrance, and the car doors flew open. The little distraction drew everyone's attention to the arrival.

A woman dressed in all-black attire, from her veil down, stepped out. A man was immediately by her side, taking her arms gently into his. Together, they walked into the gathering.

The woman raised her head and immediately spotted the only person she wanted to be beside. She bent her head, whispering into her escort's ears. He nodded in understanding and disentangled his hands from hers. With grace so natural to her, she worked with the woman, who had a welcoming smile.

"You came." She whispered.

"I did." She nodded, facing straight ahead.

The priest cleared his throat and began his speech in earnest. It was just like everyone expected—short, yet provoking many emotions.

It was either the man had lived his life a devout catholic, or he knew how to sign a good cheque. It all depended on how much you knew him when he lived.

"Does anyone else have something to say about the deceased?" The firm voice of the priest asked.

Hush murmurs spread across the small crowd, each now realizing maybe they didn't know as much about the man to make a well-informed speech. It was all on the surface—the kind of friendships borne from the mutual availability of explosive wealth.

"I will." The lady in the black veil raised her hands, and everyone's eyes turned to her.

"Are you sure?" The woman beside her asked, with pity in her eyes.

"Why not? Despite everything, he was our father." As soon as the words escaped her lips, a coldness from the depth of her soul seeped through her bones, giving her a chill.

"Come forward, child." The priest beckoned on her, and she took careful steps towards him.

She took a moment to stare at the body of her lifeless father, and it felt like a dream. He had lived like he could never die. It was unbelievable that he wasn't immortal.

Even more unbelievable was the way he had died. It took every force of will to tear her eyes away and face the crowd. Slowly, she lifted her veil off her face, and a loud gasp echoed around the crowd.

"My father was a victim by legacy and a villain by will," She began in such a way that stunned everyone.

"Is it weird that my fondest memory of him is the seconds before he took his last breath?" A quick murmur began to spiral. The look on their faces speaks volumes of their thoughts.

"Maybe, or maybe not. I didn't want to be here today. Not because he didn't deserve my presence but because he didn't. However, in his very last moments, I saw a man who sacrificed the love he could have had because he felt it was a weakness. A weakness taught to him by his father and the father before him. A generation of men who died by the archaic ideas of toxicity.