Chapter 4 - The Rain on White Lilies
The morning of the funeral broke over the city in a sheet of slate-gray rain.
The church was Saint Patrick’s, an immense stone cathedral where Alexander had donated millions of dollars over the last decade.
Dozens of black town cars lined the street for three blocks in every direction.
Men in heavy wool overcoats stood along the perimeter of the church steps, umbrella handles resting firmly against their sides, eyes scanning the crowd with professional paranoia.
Chicago’s elite had turned out in full force.
There were politicians, judges, shipping magnates, and men whose names never appeared in the newspapers but whose whispers moved millions through the city’s docks.
They had come to pay respects to Alexander Hayes.
Not to Grace.
Inside the cathedral, four thousand white lilies filled the nave with a scent so sweet it made Emily’s stomach twist into knots.
Alexander had paid for every petal.
He had hired a private choir from Vienna that was currently singing hymns from the high balcony.
He had commissioned a white marble casket trimmed with twenty-four-karat gold leaf.
It sat in front of the altar like a museum piece, gleaming under the candlelight.
Alexander stood beside it.
He wore a tailored black suit that hung slightly loose on his frame; he had not eaten or slept in seventy-two hours.
His face was drawn, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes sunken into bruised hollows.
When the heavy doors at the back of the cathedral creaked open, the whispers died instantly.
Emily walked down the center aisle alone.
She wore no designer mourning clothes.
She had rejected the silk veil Eleanor had sent to her hotel room that morning.
She wore the simple black wool coat Grace had liked because the buttons looked like shiny river stones.
She carried nothing in her hands.
Alexander turned toward her, a desperate glimmer of hope lighting up his exhausted eyes.
He took two steps toward her, his hand outstretched.
“Emily.”
She did not take his hand.
She walked straight past him to the small white casket.
She looked down at the closed lid.
She was glad it was closed.
She did not want these people—these strangers who measured human grief by the cost of the flower arrangements—to look upon Grace’s peace.
Eleanor stepped out from the first pew, extending a gloved hand toward Emily’s shoulder.
“Emily, dear, sit with the family.”
“The press is outside.”
“We must present a united front.”
Emily did not turn around.
“Your family died three days ago, Eleanor.”
“This is an obscenity.”
The priest, standing near the pulpit, cleared his throat nervously, unsure how to handle a woman who did not care about the power of the Hayes name.
Alexander stepped closer, his voice cracking with sheer desperation.
“I did this for her, Emily.”
“I wanted her to have everything.”
“I wanted the city to remember her name forever.”
“You did this for yourself,” Emily said, turning her head slowly to look at him.
Her eyes were clear, cold, and entirely merciless.
“You wanted to buy back your soul with four thousand flowers.”
“You wanted these men to see you standing by a gold casket so they wouldn't see you kneeling in Grace’s blood.”
A collective gasp rippled through the front rows where the city’s most distinguished families sat.
Alexander’s face turned gray.
“Emily, please don’t do this here,” he whispered.
“I love you.”
“I have always loved you.”
“You loved your pride more,” she said.
She reached into her coat pocket.
Alexander watched her hand, expecting perhaps a handkerchief or a prayer card.
Instead, she pulled out her wedding ring.
The diamond was seven carats, flawless, bought by Alexander in Antwerp before their wedding to prove to his associates that he had secured the finest prize in Chicago.
She held it between two fingers over the gold leaf of the casket.
“Emily, no,” Alexander breathed, lunging forward with his hands cupped as if trying to catch water.
She let it go.
The ring struck the polished wood with a sharp, hollow *tink*.
It rolled across the white lid and settled directly beside the spray of baby’s breath.
“Keep your flowers, Alexander,” Emily said.
“Keep your cathedral.”
“Keep your empire.”
“None of it will ever bring her back to that preschool gate.”
She turned her back on the altar.
She walked back down the aisle, her boots making a steady, measured rhythm against the ancient stone floor.
Behind her, Alexander dropped to his knees in the aisle, heedless of the cameras, heedless of his mother’s horrified whispers, heedless of the city councilmen staring in disbelief.
“Emily!” he cried out, his voice echoing through the vaulted arches like a wounded animal.
“Emily, don't leave me!”
She pushed open the heavy oak doors.
The Chicago rain fell cold and steady across her face.
She did not get into the limousine waiting at the curb.
May you like
She did not look at the photographers whose flashes went off like dying stars against the wet pavement.
She walked down the stone stairs, through the crowd of umbrella-holding bodyguards, and vanished into the gray mist of the city.
