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)
“Miss Button? Jo?” Betty’s voice floats through the door gently. “May I come in?”
“Yes, come in,” I call- turning around to face her as she enters.
She steps inside with the quiet efficiency of someone trained to move without disturbing the air. Today she’s dressed more formally than usual in a black pencil skirt and a grey silk blouse. Her red curls are pinned neatly into a pretty updo.
“Mr. Hampstead called,” she says softly. “He asked me to tell you that your car will be here at eleven and to let you know that you’re welcome to join the family procession if you wish. Otherwise, your vehicle will take you separately to the church.”
“Please let him know I’ll go separately,” I say without hesitation.
Betty studies me for a moment, and there’s no judgement there. Only understanding. I’m glad she gets it. It makes me feel like I made the right call.
“I thought you might,” she says gently.
I nod. I don’t belong in the family procession. I am family only by biology, and in truth, I am a stranger to these people. I don’t even know Joseph’s family except, of course, what I have seen of them in the media. I don’t belong beside Lydia Manswell, Joseph’s ex-wife, but for some reason she is now playing the part of his grieving widow. And I certainly don’t belong beside Sheldon Manswell, Lydia’s son from a previous marriage, or my stepbrother, who will be grieving a father who actually raised him. I certainly don’t belong in that line of black cars carrying the immediate family. In fact, I don’t even know if I belong at the funeral, but according to Gavin Hampstead, my father requested I attend, so maybe I’ll be there for him.
“Thank you, Betty,” I say.
She hesitates. “It will be … quite an event.”
I feel like she’s trying to warn me that this isn’t going to be any ordinary funeral.
Of course it won’t be ordinary. Joseph Manswell was never ordinary in life, and I’m sure in death he wants to have his last moment of glory. He didn’t just build a company. He built an empire. Tech, satellites, AI, clean energy. He’s been on magazine covers. Panels. International stages. I’ve seen his face before of course, on the news, in business journals left behind on planes and in tabloids when his marriage to Lydia broke down. I knew a fair bit about his life, I guess.
The first thing I notice as the car approaches the church is that it is enormous. It’s not quaint, and it’s certainly not intimate. It’s absolutely monumental. Stone steps lead up to towering doors. The bell tower is so high up that I have to tilt my head back to look at it. It’s made from gray stones and it looks like something out of a movie. Long black cars line the curb in a procession that looks less like a funeral and more like a global summit. People mill around in various shades of gray and black, talking in muted tones as they wait for the family to arrive.
The car comes to a stop, and I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I don’t know why I feel so nervous. I shouldn’t be. Nothing is expected of me. The driver comes around to open the door for me, but I wait a moment before stepping out. Thanking him, I busy my hands by smoothing my dress down over my hips.
I move quietly through the throngs of mourners, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. I want to stay invisible. That’s the goal. I check my cell phone is off, even though I know it is, then I stand slightly off to the side and wait.
Cameras flash near the front steps, and even from here, I can hear the murmur of reporters as they surge forward as one. The main procession is arriving.
I stay back, blending into the cluster of respectful guests. I’m pretty sure the reporters have no idea who I am, but just in case information has leaked out and someone knows about me, I don’t want to be caught on camera like some little fame-hungry wannabe.
When the procession reaches the front, several men in dark suits, probably the security team hired by the family, get out of the first car and begin ushering the reporters back. The doors to the other cars start opening, and people begin getting out. The pallbearers get the coffin from the hearse and as everyone is focused on that, I take a moment to look around me. I assume some of the sharp-suited attendees are company executives, extended acquaintances, perhaps even investors. I catch glimpses of faces I recognize from news articles and documentaries, and it feels surreal.
I spot a tech magnate who pioneered private space travel. A woman who runs one of the largest AI firms in the world. A hedge fund billionaire whose name I once saw attached to a scandal that was quickly hushed up. There are famous actors, a former president, and celebrity musicians who write songs about love and break-ups. I feel like I’ve wandered into a documentary about the modern oligarchy. I keep my head down and no one spares me a second glance.