Chapter 172

• The air was heavy with grief, cloaked in black veils and silent tears. Meredith Walter's funeral was no ordinary affair. The woman, once a central figure in high society, was now the subject of hushed conversations, judging glances, and sympathetic sighs. The venue—a private estate garden with marble columns and cascading white roses—was dressed more for a wedding than a farewell, but it was what Meredith would have wanted. She had always demanded beauty, even in sorrow.
• A sea of mourners in polished black attire lined the rows of chairs, murmuring condolences and recalling the grace and power she had wielded in her prime. Her casket sat at the center, adorned with lilies, gardenias, and a small framed photo of her younger self—smiling, proud, untouchable.
• Ivan stood at the front, shoulders squared, jaw locked. Not a single tear had escaped his eyes since they found her. He had refused to see her body at the morgue. Refused to hear the details. All he allowed himself to acknowledge was that she was gone, and she had left behind a trail of shattered illusions and guilt thick enough to choke him. Jeremy stood quietly by his side, and so did Margeaux, dressed simply yet stunningly, holding Ivan’s hand when the tremor beneath his skin grew too noticeable and his father.