The sky over Valmont City looked like wet concrete—flat, colorless, like the whole damn place was in mourning.
But it didn't rain.
No storm. No thunder.
Not even a single goddamn tear from the clouds.
Just like there were none from Madame Rousseau's family.
Eris ran.
Heels slamming pavement, breath ragged and sharp in her chest, lungs screaming for a break—but she didn't stop. Couldn't. Her shift wasn't even done when the message came in, but the second she saw the nurse's name, every priority she had went to hell.
Madame Rousseau has passed. If you want to say goodbye, come before the burial tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Like grief had a deadline.
Like goodbye could be penciled into a schedule.
She was late.
Fingers clenched tight around the strap of her bag. Her hands were ice-cold, and not because of the wind. Something sat in her chest—tight, sharp-edged. Grief, maybe. Or rage. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
The funeral home was just ahead, red brick and too quiet. Still solid, still the same. But something felt… off. Dead, in a way buildings shouldn't feel.
No open windows.
No scent of chamomile tea drifting out.
No familiar voice calling her name like it used to.
Just silence.
She stood there for a second too long. Breathing like she'd just escaped something, though she wasn't sure what. Then, finally, she walked inside.
And yeah—confirmation.
This wasn't just the funeral of some sweet old woman. This was the burial of the last good thing she'd ever had.
The room was full—but empty, somehow.
Eris scanned the crowd. All of them in black. Sons, daughters-in-law, grandkids. Perfect clothes. Perfect posture. Expressions carved from stone.
No crying. No sobs. No messy grief.
Just polite nods and whispered conversations, like they were attending a shareholder meeting instead of their mother's funeral.
One of the daughters-in-law sniffled—barely. Her eyes were puffy, not from crying, but from lack of sleep. She let out a bored sigh and muttered, "At least it was painless."
At least.
Eris bit her tongue so hard she tasted metal.
She didn't join them. Fuck no. She wasn't going to stand there and pretend like she belonged in that shallow, silk-draped little circle of vultures.
Instead, she moved through them—like smoke, like something unwelcome—and approached the coffin.
There she was.
Madame Rousseau, still and pale. Too pale. Too still. Eris's breath caught.
This woman was never cold. She'd been all color, all fire—red lipstick, sapphire blouses, voice like a goddamn blanket. And now?
She looked like a wax figure. Like someone had sucked the warmth out and left a pretty shell.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed the edge of the coffin. The wood was glossy. Polished. Expensive, of course. This family didn't skimp on appearances.
Not even in death.
But love?
Love wasn't in the budget, apparently.
No hands held. No shaking shoulders. No mourning. Just jewelry, cashmere, and shallow breathing.
Eris swallowed hard. Her throat burned.
She leaned in, whispered so softly it barely made it past her lips, "I'm sorry I was late."
No sobbing. No theatrics. Just one tear. Then another.
They slipped down, traitorous and hot, landing on her skin like tiny betrayals. She wiped them away, fast and rough—not out of shame, but fury.
Because Madame Rousseau deserved better.
She deserved to be grieved like a mother.
Not treated like a loose end in a will.
Eris stood there, jaw tight, heart heavier than it had been in years.
And in that moment—surrounded by people who didn't give a damn—she realized something brutal and sharp:
Grief doesn't just hurt.
It rots.
Especially when you're the only one who feels it.
A year after Madame Rousseau's funeral, Eris still hadn't figured out how to fill the silence the old woman left behind.
The rain didn't help. Just a slow, misty drizzle tapping on the café window, trailing down the glass like watered-down ink. She stirred her tea like it owed her answers—over and over, even though it'd gone cold ten minutes ago. Tasted like disappointment now, but she kept stirring anyway.
She hated surprise meetings. Especially ones dropped on her lap by people she'd never even heard of.
Vincent Dumas. Said he was Madame Rousseau's former secretary.
He showed up on the dot. Not a second early, not a breath late. Late-twenties, maybe early thirties if you squinted. Tailored charcoal suit, not flashy, but sharp. Brown hair combed back with clinical precision. He carried himself like someone who could vanish into a room and somehow still know everyone's secrets.
"Miss Moreau," he greeted, voice low and precise. The kind of tone that belonged to men who'd been taught never to waste a syllable.
Eris clocked him before he even sat. Rolex. Vintage. Dependable, not loud. Hands clean. Nails manicured, no rings. No twitchy movements. No fake smiles. The kind of man who didn't blink unless he had a reason.
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips—just enough to be polite. "Sir Dumas."
He took the seat across from her like it belonged to him. His eyes flicked to her untouched tea, then back to her face. Studying. Calculating. Not with arrogance, but with intention.
"I'll get to the point," he said. "I'm here to deliver something Madame Rousseau meant to give you herself. If she'd lived long enough."
Her spine straightened just a little. But her face? Still as glass.
She didn't need to ask what this was about. People didn't crawl out of the woodwork a year after someone died just to play memory lane.
Vincent exhaled slowly, leaned back like he had all the time in the world. "She recommended you for a position. An internship at Vanguard Corp. Not through the standard route. This wasn't a formality."
Eris blinked once. Vanguard.
Well, shit.
That name carried weight. Glossy, gold-plated, built-on-the-blood-of-dreams kind of weight. They didn't do charity. They didn't hand out chances. And they sure as hell didn't dip their fingers into the muddy little world she came from.
Her lips parted, brow pulling just a hair. "Why?"
Vincent smiled—but only with half his mouth. Like he was testing the question before answering. "Because she saw something in you. Your mind. The way you think. She believed you deserved more."
Of course she did. Even dead, Madame Rousseau had this annoying habit of reaching into Eris's life like she still ran the damn show.
Eris tapped her finger against the wood. Quiet. Quick. Thinking.
This was insane. She didn't have the résumé, didn't have the polished degree, didn't even have a last name people took seriously. Just a girl who knew how to survive, how to sell herself without selling herself, how to squeeze opportunity out of the cracks.
But Madame—she'd always looked at her like she was something more. Like the bruises, the hunger, the back alley jobs didn't define her. Like she could grow teeth and still belong in a world built on crystal and gold.
Her gaze snapped back to Vincent. "And if I say no?"
He tilted his head, lips tugging into a knowing smirk. Not smug—just… inevitable. "Then you'd be turning your back on the only woman who ever bet on you without asking for anything in return."
Low blow. Bastard knew it, too.
Her fingers curled around her cup. White knuckled. This wasn't just an offer. It was a mirror. And damn it, she couldn't look away.
She let the silence stretch, then—
"Fine," she said.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"
"I'll take the interview." She leaned back, mirroring his posture. Cool. Controlled. But her pulse thumped hard under her skin. "But if this is just some legacy pity project, I'm walking."
His smile didn't shift, but something sharp glinted behind his eyes. "Miss Moreau, I assure you—pity's the last thing Vanguard offers."