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I narrowed my gaze as I recognized a reporter who’d written a piece about me for Architectural Digest.
The way he kept looking up and then down to type on his phone said he was either taking vigorous notes or composing some message.
Was he freelancing for some other news outlet?
Until Sophia entered my life, I’d enjoyed a quiet existence, keeping a relatively low profile with very little information about my personal life in public. Then, it all changed.
It started with jealousy getting the best of me and pushing me to bring my relationship out into the open before Sophia’s family and most of New York’s elite. Then, it continued with the lengths I’d taken to protect Sophia during her battle to clear her name for Keith Randolph’s murder investigation.
At this point, I gave a rat’s ass about what he planned to do with the information he gathered regarding the funeral or my sordid family legacy of murder.
It wouldn’t change the facts. Stuart Pierce was my grandfather. He died of a heart attack in prison after the State of New York convicted him for the brutal murder of his mistress and punished him with a life sentence with no possibility of parole.
If this snoop decided to write something about me and started a gossip frenzy, I would follow the same protocol I’d always followed—ignore every last motherfucker’s questions until they got tired of asking them.
My annoyance with the reporter completely disappeared as I caught sight of a petite female sitting behind my grandmother’s friends in the far back corner of all the seats. I wouldn’t have noticed her if her demeanor wasn’t so poised compared to the audience in attendance.
Why would any woman show up here? My grandfather hurt and abused women, destroying the essence of any female he encountered. The last thing he deserved was someone to show him any form of respect at his funeral.
In the next second, recognition filled me—the body, the regal jawline, the delicate hands. She wore all black with a large-brimmed hat and a lace veil meant to disguise her face, but nothing on earth could hide her from me.
Sophia.
She shouldn’t be here. This cemetery wasn’t the place for her. None of this evil needed to touch her. She was pure and deserved everything untouched by the taint of what I’d come from.
It was my fucking job to keep her safe and protect her, not bring her into the dirt and muck of my life, my lineage. All I’d ever brought her was danger and hurt her.
I only started to accept what we had was over and that staying away from her was best for us. She deserved so much better than anything I could offer her.
Now she’d shown up here, and the chaos churned inside me.
My logical and maybe cruel side wanted me to stalk over to her and demand she leave, tell her she wasn’t welcome, that this was a private affair—the other part of me who couldn’t imagine a life without her felt relief. I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms and bury my face in her hair to inhale her comforting scent and have a few moments of solace from the shit that stewed around me.
Sophia cocked her head slightly, sensing my gaze, and lifted her veil to reveal her dark onyx eyes. My heart clenched, knowing she’d come for me.
After all the pain I caused her and the countless ways I disappointed her, she was near. The greedy or rather selfish part of me wanted her sitting next to me.
As if hearing my thoughts, she rose from her spot and gracefully moved toward me, taking the empty seat beside me. Without a word, she took hold of my hand and turned her attention to Father Conner.
* * *
Thirty minutes after the funeral service ended, the last guest departed, and Sophia and I stood near the grave site. Neither of us spoke to each other. Our conversations remained limited to the guests and the priest.
It was as if we wanted to preserve the comfort of being together as partners to lean on without discussing the fact that we were in these roles.
Glancing down at Sophia’s face, I noticed the dark smudges under her eyes and the sadness on her face.
“He isn’t someone worth having compassion for. He wasn’t a good man.”
“I’m here for you, not him.” She looked up at me. “You cared for him.”
“I didn’t,” I replied so fast it almost felt like a reflex.
What would she think if I told her I despised the bastard, that I was happy to have the burden of his care lifted off my shoulders, or that I was ecstatic and relieved never to hear his fucking stories again?
“He meant something to you, even if you don’t want to admit it. This funeral proves it.”
She hadn’t a clue.
