Chapter 228

Noah

If anyone ever tells you funerals bring “closure,” punch them.

Hard.

Because standing there in a black suit for the second time in one fucking week, watching a coffin get loaded out of a mansion big enough to house half my hometown, closure wasn’t even on the table. Survival was. Endurance was. Keeping Lexie from collapsing was.

Paying respects?

Yeah. No.

I wasn’t here to “respect” William Hart.

The man didn’t deserve respect. He didn’t even deserve a moment of silence. If I was being honest, I was mostly here to confirm he was actually dead and staying that way.

And for Lexie.

Only for Lexie.

The night before, with Aiden’s arms around me, I’d finally cracked open after holding my shit together for everyone else. And the truth?

I’d barely scraped the surface.

I kept thinking:

How the hell did I get here?

In less than a year…

I’d gone from being a scared kid from West Virginia running from abuse, hoping to make the NFL so I could rescue my family…

To realizing I was bi, falling in love with my goddamn coach, becoming team star, getting blackmailed by not one but two psychos, being forced into a fake wedding, stalked, separated from the man I loved, almost killed by my father, and watching my billionaire enemy drop dead in front of me at the altar.

Holy.

Fucking.

Hell.

No, I wasn’t okay.

I wasn’t even in the same galaxy as “okay.”

So when I finally gave myself permission to crumble?

I didn’t crack.

I shattered.

But I was going to get better.

That part I knew.

There was nothing wrong with needing help.

Aiden said it over and over—therapy wasn’t weakness or “crazy shit,” it was strength. Admitting I needed it didn’t make me a wimp. It made me someone who survived too much and finally stopped pretending it didn’t matter.

And Lexie?

Jesus. She needed therapy twice as much as I did. Controlling father, emotional abuse, forced engagement, near-fatal crash, watching her dad die in her arms…

If anyone needed a trauma-exorcist, it was her.

But not today.

Today wasn’t about healing.

Today was about getting through the circus.

Because we still had to get to the funeral, and a wall of cameras, microphones, and reporters blocked every possible path from the house to the service.

“Ready?” Lexie asked beside me, even though she clearly wasn’t.

“No,” I muttered, adjusting my tie. “But let’s get this over with.”

Flashbulbs popped the moment we stepped outside.

Voices shouted our names.

Someone yelled, “NOAH, DID YOU KNOW YOUR FATHER WAS IN TOWN?”

Another, “LEXIE, DID YOU KNOW JAMES BLAKE?”

And the loudest one:

“WAS THE WEDDING REAL AND ARE YOU STILL GETTING MARRIED?”

Jesus Christ.

I put my hand at the small of Lexie’s back, shielding her the best I could as we forced our way through the chaos toward the long black car waiting for us. The half an hour drive—also appreciated the first time.

People think funerals are quiet.

Turns out, billionaires don’t do quiet—they do spectacle.

And we were walking straight into one.

Funerals were also supposed to feel different from weddings, I thought…

But walking into St. Althea’s again felt like déjà vu—just stripped of music, hope, and whatever scraps of innocence we had left in this place.

Same cathedral.

Same carved arches.

Same chandelier light hitting the marble.

But instead of violins… murmurs and whispers.

Instead of breathless anticipation… a thick fog of discomfort people tried to hide behind polite expressions.

The entire thing felt like a mocking irony for many. But, God forgive me, it was a miracle to me.

The same damn people who’d elbowed their way to the front pews on my wedding day—desperate to be seen kissing William’s ass—were now lined up again, trying to look heartbroken while they calculated how to stay close to the remaining power: his wife and daughter.

Funny how loyalty works when money dies but the inheritance lives.

But there were fewer familiar faces than at the wedding.

No teammates. No college friends. No cheer squad.

Only the ones who were obligated to be here… or paid to be.

My mom and Emily sat beside me, close, quiet, present.

Lexie held her mother’s hand like she was holding herself together by threads.

And in the back pew—away from the cameras and vultures—Aiden sat still, watchful. Hale beside him, along with a few members of the college staff and the university athletic committee.

The Harts had funded half their programs; appearances mattered.

But he was there.

Aiden was there.

And that alone helped me breathe.

The service blurred. Scripture, incense, a choir humming something that felt too gentle for the shitstorm William left behind. My mind drifted in and out, replaying flashes from the wedding—the scream, the gunshot, Lexie covered in blood that wasn’t hers.

By the time the priest finished, I didn’t feel sorrow. I felt… empty.

At the end, the family—or what was left of it—formed a line near the exit as people came to offer condolences.

Most phrases blurred together:

“So sorry for your loss.”

“He was a great man.”

“Such a tragedy…”

I kept my jaw locked so I wouldn’t accidentally laugh in someone’s face.

But Lexie and I stood a little apart from the receiving line, both of us silent, holding on by a thread. Neither of us had the energy to fake grief for a man who’d spent years causing it.

Her hand brushed mine. Not romantic—just survival.

At some point, movement caught my eye.

Two familiar figures approached: Hale first, Aiden behind him. The tightness in my chest eased just seeing him.

They greeted Lexie gently, respectfully—Hale shaking her hand, Aiden giving her the warmest, most heartfelt “I’m sorry” anyone had said all morning.

Then Hale cleared his throat, suddenly less stoic.

“Lexie,” he said softly, “if you’re up for it… we brought someone who wanted to see you.”

She blinked, exhausted. “Right now?”

“If you can manage it,” Hale replied. “Just for a moment.”

She gave the smallest nod—polite, drained, but willing.

Hale stepped out.

Aiden placed a hand on my back. I didn’t lean into it, but I didn’t move away, either.

A minute later, Hale returned.

And beside him—

“Micah?”

Lexie’s breath broke. Her hand flew to her mouth.

He was pale, thin, wrist in a cast, bruises still fading, but upright and smiling—that soft, earnest smile he saved for the people who mattered.

“Hey, Lex…” His voice trembled. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She threw her arms around him before anyone could stop her, burying her face against his shoulder as he held her as best as he could without hurting himself.

Aiden exhaled next to me—a tiny sound, but loaded.

“How did you—?” Lexie asked when she finally pulled back, wiping her tears.

“Got sprung this morning,” Micah said, glancing at his cast. “I’m technically not supposed to be standing in crowds yet, but… yeah. I couldn’t not come. Not after everything.”

And for once—Micah didn’t crack a joke.

Didn’t deflect.

Didn’t play the clown.

He was just… there.

Present. Human. Healing.

Lexie nodded and hugged him again, trembling.

Aiden lightly touched my elbow, guiding me back to give them space, and Hale followed, the four of us stepping aside while they sat in a private room a few meters from us.

For the first time that day… something felt right.

Not healed.

Not fixed.

But at least not heading to the tragic past, but pointing at a new future.