Damian
The sky was a dull grey- a fitting colour for today's events.
I stood motionless at the head of the grave, my hands clasped behind my back.
My gaze drifts to the people who attended the funeral. There are familiar faces. One I have long since memorised. The rival heads of the many prestigious families in the nation. They are here not to mourn, but to find my weakness.
They are predators in mourning clothes. They are vultures, ready to pick my bones clean. Their faces, marked with solemn respect, are just a mask. I can feel their eyes on me. They aren't mourning Seraphina. They're watching me, gauging the tremors in the foundation of my empire.
"The Russians are asking questions," Cassian said, his voice a low rumble at my side. He was a large man, but he had the ability to make himself small. "Nothing overt. Just...curiosity...about the shipping lanes."
"Curiosity doesn't harm," I replied, my tone even. "Curiosity isn't a move. They can be curious."
My gaze drifted over the closed, polished mahogany coffin. A beautiful box for a beautiful mistake. Seraphina. The fifth. She loved parties, jewels, and the sound of her own voice.
"She was a beautiful girl, boss. Her family is shattered." Cassian murmured.
I gave a slight shake of my head. "She's a disruption. A miscalculation." I turned my head slightly to look at him. I saw his jaw clench. "Weakness is a contamination. It spreads. It starts with tears and ends with a phone call to a business rival. I didn't eliminate a person. I removed a weakness."
He said nothing, only nodding. He understood the logic.
The priest was chanting his Latin scriptures. I barely heard him. I was watching the crowd.
My father, his face filled with disapproval. He had never agreed with my methods; even so, he enjoyed the results. My cousins, with their poorly concealed ambitions. They saw an opportunity. They are fools. There is no opportunity.
A man with a press pass, bold enough to pass the velvet ropes, had his camera raised. The camera was pointed directly at me. Aiming to get a picture of the grieving widower. The "Mourning Baron."
Before Cassian could move, I raised a finger. Cassian stopped. I held the reporter's gaze. I didn't scowl. I gave a small, pleasant smile. His camera faltered. He saw something in my eyes that wasn't grief. He saw the curiosity of a man studying a fascinating insect. He stepped back, slowly. One step, then another, until he blended into the crowd.
"Handle him," I said softly. "Later. I want to know where he works, who he pays, and the name of everyone he holds dear."
"Of course, boss."
The chanting ceased, and the service concluded. It was time for the final performance. As Seraphina's parents stepped forward to place a white rose on the casket, a familiar sense of peace washed over me.
As the dull thud of the clump of dirt hit the mahogany coffin, a new thought surfaced. The king's table was missing its queen. A king cannot rule alone. The role of a wife was neither one of companionship nor romance. It was a structural necessity.
My last four wives were failures in their own way. The first was too ambitious. A snake who thought she could outmaneuver me. The second was a leech. Taking without adding value. The third was bored, a fool who sought excitement in the bed of my enemies. The fourth...she had been clever. She almost understood. But her cleverness was sharp and aggressive. It was a disruption.
Seraphina had been an attempt at something different. A decorative piece. A pretty face. Her problem, the constant need for validation.
I needed something else. Not a leech. Not a snake. Not a fool. Not a pretty thing. A piece that was so fundamentally simple that betrayal was impossible. A creature who understood its place. A blank slate. A lamb.
What would it be like to have a partner who didn't disrupt the pattern?
I turned away from the grave as it was completely covered. The rain had begun to fall. The crowd was leaving. They would return to their homes and whisper.
----------------------
Miles away, in a sunroom flooded with the light of a grey afternoon, she watched it all unfold.
The room was a testament to innocence. The wicker furniture with plush cushions. Shelves lined with leather-bound classics she had never read. Vases with freshly cut roses from the family garden. It was a beautiful cage, and she was the canary.
Or so they thought.
"Little darling, are you sure you're alright?" her mother asked, walking into the room with a tea tray. "The news about... that dreadful man's wife. It's all over the television. A tragedy. You know I dislike you hearing such things."
She looked out the window, her expression shifting from a thoughtful stillness to gentle concern. "I'm fine, mama. I'm just sad for her. And for him. To lose someone like that. It must be difficult." Her voice was soft, filled with feigned empathy.
Her mother sighed, placing a steaming cup of chamomile tea on the table. "You're too kind for this world, sweet thing. Your heart is tender. That's why we protect you." She stroked her daughter's hair. "Drink your tea. I need to talk to the gardener about the aphids on my roses."
As soon as her mother left, the gentle mask dissolved, retracting bit by bit.
She picked up her phone from the table. It didn't show any social media or new headlines. It was a single feed from a hacked security camera, angled at a certain man.
She watched as he spoke to the large man beside him. She saw the slight tightening around his eyes when he mentioned the weakness of his late wife.
He's right. She's a flawed design. All that neediness.
When the reporter stepped forward, she leaned in. This was the part she enjoyed. She watched the man's reaction. A masterpiece of psychological dominance.
He enjoys the violence. The moment the mask falls, so do I.
The moment the final piece of dirt fell on the coffin, she saw the shift. It was subtle. The slight tilt of his head as he turned away from the coffin. He was looking for the next piece.
She watched him turn and walk away.
The game can begin.