Elena Roth stood at the front, expression carved from stone. Not a single tear escaped her ice-gray eyes, though her perfectly manicured fingers clenched the damp leather handles of her umbrella. Beneath her tailored black dress and high-collared coat, her body was taut with unspoken grief. She hadn't cried not when she received the call in the middle of the night, not when the coroner confirmed "heart failure," and not even when she'd stood in her father's penthouse office just hours before, staring at the now-vacant chair she was expected to fill.
A priest talked about legacy and faith, but Elena barely heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on the casket, a sleek, polished oak coffin that looked more like a museum piece than a resting place. It was how her father would've wanted it minimalist, high-quality, timeless.
Beside her, Sophie Grant, her lifelong friend and the company's PR director, gently squeezed her arm. "You should sit," Sophie murmured, voice soft and cautious. "The rain's getting worse."
"I'm fine," Elena replied, not moving an inch. She wasn't fine, but she couldn't afford to appear otherwise.
Behind them, board members, tech moguls, journalists, and family acquaintances whispered and watched. Some with genuine grief. Others with barely masked calculations. Dominic Roth had been a powerful man beloved by some, feared by many. And now, with his sudden and suspicious passing, all eyes were on the only person left standing between Roth Industries and the wolves: his daughter.
As the final words were spoken and the casket lowered into the ground, Elena's hand slipped into her coat pocket, feeling the cold metal of the company access card her father had given her just weeks ago his last gift, as if he knew this day would come sooner than expected. She had resisted using it then, dismissing his "emergency CEO protocols" as unnecessary paranoia. Now, it was the only thing tethering her to the world she had to command.
She inhaled sharply, fighting the heat rising in her throat. The cameras were already snapping, the tabloids probably crafting headlines like "Heiress Turned CEO: Roth's Ice Queen Steps Up" or "Elena Roth: Grief or Game Face?"
A gentle voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Elena, we need to head to the reception," Sophie said again. "People will want to see you."
Elena gave a stiff nod. "Let them see what they came for."
She turned from the grave, her stiletto heels sinking slightly into the wet earth. With every step toward the waiting cars, she felt the weight of her inheritance settle over her shoulders like a cloak: Roth Industries, her father's empire, was now hers to command.
But even as she climbed into the black car and the door shut with a final thud, Elena couldn't shake the strange sensation gnawing at her chest. Her father's death had been sudden, too sudden. And the way he looked in that hospital bed, peaceful but not quite right, replayed in her mind like a loop.
Something didn't add up.
And though she didn't yet know it, this funeral wasn't the end. It was the beginning of a trial far more dangerous than grief.
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