Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The procession is ready, and the pallbearers lead the way, the coffin resting on their collective shoulders. The family follows, and then all of the other mourners join in. I hang back and join as the crowd thins out. The last thing I want is to be front and center. Let the movers and shakers who want to be seen be seen.
Inside, the church is cold, the atmosphere hushed and yet strangely buzzing. It’s a controlled atmosphere of grief wrapped in wealth. White orchids cascade down the aisle, and the scent of lilies hangs heavy in the air. At the front, the coffin rests beneath a massive arrangement of white flowers on a polished wood stand. The whole set-up is immaculately understated money.
My throat tightens as my glance lands on the coffin. That’s him. That’s all that remains of the man who unknowingly shaped my entire existence.
I slip into a seat near the back and watch as the family sits down in the front pew. Lydia is breathtaking in black, every bit as gorgeous in real life as she is on the internet. She is sculpted, composed, and flawless. Even from here, I can feel the chill of her presence. Almost mannequin-like. A world away from my mother. It makes me wonder about the relationship between my parents. What caused my mother to lie to me all these years?
Sheldon sits beside her, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed forward. He looks like he is trying to emulate his mother’s composure. Next to them are people I don’t recognize, other family members I assume, ones not close enough for the media to follow and report on their every move.
And of course, there’s the high and mighty Axel Rhodes. He sits at the end of the row behind them. I haven’t run into him since that first night, and I don’t really know his role in all of this, but judging by the seat he has been assigned, I’m assuming he’s not family, but he’s not merely staff either. Maybe a close family friend?
He is wearing a black suit with an immaculate white shirt and a black tie. His broad shoulders are straining against the fabric, not in a way that implies his suit isn’t a good fit, but in a way that implies he is muscular and terribly powerful. His dark hair is pushed back today, severe and controlled, more appropriate for the occasion than the previous floppy style, although I kind of liked the tousled look.
His green eyes scan the room once, assessing, searching. For a split second, they land on me. My stomach flips, and I tell myself to get a grip. This is a funeral, not a bar. And besides, he has made his feelings towards me perfectly clear in the minute I spent in his company.
Recognition flickers on his face, though not surprise. He knew I’d be here. His gaze lingers on mine for a fraction of a second before sliding away. The service begins before I have time to overthink what that split-second look might mean.
A low organ note vibrates through the space, and the few whispered conversations fade off. The vicar steps forward, folding his hands over the lectern. His voice is steady, resonant, filled with warmth and solemnity, trained by decades of guiding people through grief.
“Today we gather not only to mourn a man, but to honor a life that altered the shape of our modern world,” he begins. “Joseph Manswell was called many things in his lifetime. Innovator, disruptor, visionary, pioneer… genius. Investors called him fearless. Competitors called him relentless. History, I suspect, will call him transformative.”
A quiet ripple moves through the congregation, murmured words of agreement coming from industry leaders, old colleagues, and dignitaries.
“But those titles,” the vicar continues gently, “only describe what he did. They do not tell us who he was.”
He pauses and looks up, and for a moment, it feels like he makes eye contact with everyone in that room.
“Joseph possessed a mind that saw possibility where others saw limitation. When an early prototype failed, and many did, he would smile and say, ‘Good, now we know one more way not to do it’. He believed that failure was simply information in disguise.”
A faint, knowing chuckle comes from somewhere near the front, perhaps from one of his former engineers.
“He built technologies that connected continents. He funded research that saved lives. He gave quietly and often to causes including hospitals, schools, and scholarships for students who would otherwise never have had the chance to sit in a laboratory or a lecture hall. He once told me that innovation meant nothing if it did not lift someone else with it.”
The vicar turns slightly toward the front pew.
“To Lydia, who stood beside Joseph during the years when ambition consumed more hours than sleep ever did, we acknowledge your partnership in building that extraordinary life.”