Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
They didn’t show up for Magnus. They showed up for Sable and her boys. That’s how powerful his mother’s legacy was. It outlived his father’s fortune and stretched beyond his dark shadow. Her goodness was the real source of richness in their lives, and Greyson saw that today more than ever before.
Greyson pulled his coat tighter, watching his brothers outlast the crowd. Logan wiped his nose with the back of his gloved hand. Soren stood, statue-still, jaw clenched against whatever threatened to crack his composure. They’d held it together through the service, through the endless parade of handshakes and hollow condolences, but exhaustion weighed on all of them like wet wool. After Christmas, the three of them would take a ship out and fulfill the last of his father’s wishes, scattering what remained of his ashes at sea.
Wren’s fingers found his, squeezing gently through their gloves. She’d been his anchor through every brutal moment—the viewing, the eulogy he’d somehow managed to deliver, the final prayers as they lowered their father into frozen ground. Even now, she radiated the kind of quiet strength that made him believe he might survive this.
The funeral director approached with practiced sympathy. “The limo’s ready when you are, Mr. Hawthorne. No rush.”
Greyson nodded, taking one last look at the grave site. Magnus was gone. Despite everything—all the years of silence, all the ways they’d failed each other, all the words that would never be spoken—Greyson knew they’d been good sons. Imperfect, maybe. Stubborn as hell, definitely. But they’d loved their impossible father anyway.
The black limousine waited with its engine running, exhaust clouds rising like incense in the frigid air. Logan climbed in first, then Soren. Wren squeezed in beside him, and Greyson took the seat across from his brothers, needing to see their faces, needing to know they were all still here.
The driver pulled away from the cemetery in respectful silence, tires crunching over the salt-scattered road. Through tinted windows, Greyson watched the town scroll past, shop windows still dressed for Christmas, life continuing its relentless march forward while theirs had ground to a halt.
Love was a complicated son of a bitch, perhaps more so in death. Sometimes, there just wasn’t enough time to figure it out. But he was learning.
His gaze naturally settled on Wren as she sat angelically in the dim interior. Light filtered through her hair. The gentle curve of her mouth and the steady rise and fall of her breathing settled him in ways he couldn’t explain.
His future wife.
He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that what he felt for Wren transcended every petty thing that had come before. The thought still caught him off guard, sent something warm spreading through his chest despite the cold seeping through the windows. As long as he had her by his side, he could handle anything.
They’d figure it out together—the business, the inheritance, all the complicated mess Magnus had left behind. But first, they’d get through today. They’d stand in their father’s house surrounded by casseroles and sympathy, accept more condolences, and somehow find a way to live in a new world without giants and tyrants.
The limousine turned onto the familiar tree-lined drive, and Greyson’s chest tightened. Cars already packed the circular driveway—neighbors, business associates, distant relatives who’d materialized for the occasion. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and warm light spilled from every window, transforming the austere mansion into something almost welcoming.
Their patriarch and his legacy was gone, but the house still stood. The sense of family still survived. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
The car glided to a stop beside the front steps, and Greyson took a deep breath, preparing to face whatever came next. His brothers exited, and Wren waited.
“If you’re not ready for this, we can wait.”
He met her stare and nodded. “I’m ready.”
She slid out of the car, and he followed.
The house buzzed with the peculiar energy of a wake—hushed conversations punctuated by the occasional burst of nervous laughter, the clink of silverware against china, the soft shuffle of feet across Persian rugs. Greyson stood near the fireplace, watching it all unfold like a movie he wasn’t quite part of.
The dining room table groaned under the weight of casserole dishes and sympathy offerings. Tuna noodle, green bean, something that might have been lasagna but could just as easily have been cardboard smothered in cheese. The scent of comfort food mixed with the lingering pine from their Christmas tree, creating an oddly festive atmosphere for such a somber occasion.
Wren moved through the crowd effortlessly, accepting condolences with genuine grace, directing traffic toward the buffet, somehow remembering everyone’s names and asking after their families. She’d changed from her funeral dress into something softer, a charcoal sweater that brought out the gold in her hair. Every gesture was natural, every smile authentic despite the grief shrouding the last few days.