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The Fortress at the Graveside
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“Take it,” another relative said. “Family helps family.”
I removed my white gloves slowly, deliberately, tucking them into my belt. Every movement was controlled. Intentional.
“Thank you for the offer,” I said calmly. “But I can’t accept.”
Darren scoffed. “Don’t be proud, Demi.”
“I can’t accept,” I continued, “because my husband wouldn’t be comfortable with me working for a company currently filing for Chapter Eleven bankruptcy.”
The silence was total.
It pressed in on the room like a held breath.
“My… what?” Vanessa laughed sharply. “You’re delusional. Who would marry you?”
I didn’t answer.
I simply turned my head toward the front door.
At that exact moment, a heavy knock reverberated through the house.
Not polite.
Authoritative.
Every head snapped in that direction.
I walked down the hallway, heels striking the hardwood with measured precision. Each step felt earned. I opened the door, and gray Ohio light spilled into the foyer, framing the man standing there like a verdict.
Marcus Hamilton.
He stepped inside with quiet gravity, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like it was carved rather than sewn. He carried white tulips in his hand, their stems damp from the rain.
“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “The private airfield was delayed.”
