Chapter 50 The Funeral
The entire city seemed to be mourning, or maybe it only looked that way because the Roman name had always been too large to disappear quietly.
A couple hours after I switched my phone on, the screen would always light up with either a headline or a photo, portraying a
legacy being summarized in neat, sharp sentences by people who had never sat across from Julian Roman, never felt the weight of his presence in a room or understood the kind of man he was beyond what he represented.
The articles kept coming anyway:
ROMAN DYNASTY SHAKEN BY SUDDEN LOSS.
WHAT HAPPENS TO THE ROGUE TECH CEO, JACK ROMAN?
JULIAN ROMAN’S FINAL DAYS: SOURCES SPEAK OUT.
Sources?
I almost scoffed at the thought as if grief could be sourced, and as if death was just another story to monetize.
Jack didn’t read any of it, he only picked up his phone once, his face expressionless as the screen reflected faintly in his eyes.
“I want no interviews,” he said softly, almost to himself, as if he were issuing an order to the air. “And no public statements.”
I stood in the doorway of the living room, watching him.
Then he dialed the hospital.
His voice was level, devoid of all the weight he’d carried only hours before, but I could still see it—the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in the fingers holding the phone.
“I’d like to schedule the funeral,” he said simply.
There was a pause.
“Yes, tomorrow...”
Another pause.
“I’ll cover everything. Just… keep it private.”
His eyes flicked toward the window, unfocused.“And no press.”
He hung up before any condolences could be offered or before anyone could turn his father’s death into a conversation.
I walked over quietly with a glass of water and placed it beside him on the table, unsure if he’d even noticed.
I remained standing for a moment longer, hovering awkwardly between wanting to sit beside him and wanting to give him space.
“Everyone’s going to have an opinion,” he murmured suddenly, his eyes still on the dark screen of the television. His voice was flat, but there was something sharp underneath it. “About who he was, why he disappeared all those years ago, what he did and what he didn’t do.”
I lowered myself onto the couch beside him.
The cushions dipped, and he barely reacted.
“And they’re all going to be wrong in their own way,” I said softly.
Jack let out a breath—half a scoff, half a sigh. “He was difficult,” he said, the words clipped. “He was hard, having disappeared for the longest time without explanation.”
His throat tightened slightly. "But… he was still my father.”
The last word came out quieter. So I reached for his hand, surprised it was cold.
“I only wish that he had done right by you in the end,” I whispered. “It’s sad he didn’t. But you’re still you—Jack Roman, and that matters more than people know.”
His gaze flicked toward me briefly. “Now that I think about it, I'm not even sure I know him well enough," he muttered. "I have no idea what he would have wanted for his funeral. Then again, not that he'd discuss that with an eight year old... Shit! I'm sorry my thoughts are messed up."
I shook my head at him. “I just think you should do what you think is right,” I said gently. “Not for the world, for you.”
Jack leaned back into the couch, closing his eyes for a moment like he was trying to quiet the noise in his head. He looked exhausted and hollow and it reminded me of what I didn’t allow myself to feel when my mother died.
The next day dawned grey and heavy, as if the sky itself had decided to mourn with us.
Clouds loomed low, blanketing the city in a quiet hush that felt almost respectful.
The private funeral venue stood at the far edge of the estate grounds—an elegant garden framed by weeping willows and rows of white stone benches which had once been used for corporate galas and family celebrations.
Today was nothing like it.
Only a handful of people had gathered. There was no press or flashing cameras just like Jack wanted.
There was just a somber circle of those who had been quietly threaded into Julian Roman’s life. A few close business partners who hadn’t spoken publicly in years—an old friend from his youth who looked lost in his tailored coat and there was Layla, standing slightly apart, her expression guarded yet reverent, dressed in understated black.
I stood beside Jack, my arm linked through his as the officiant’s voice wove through the air like smoke.
A breeze tugged gently at my coat but I didn't budge.
Jack’s face was unreadable. He’d said almost nothing since the day before—only confirming the time, dressing in silence, getting into the car without comment but I felt every ripple of grief radiating off of him.
The way he looked at the casket—matte black, trimmed in silver—like it was something both foreign and final.
The ceremony was brief which included a low-voiced eulogy from a man that swore Julian Roman had meant well and then a short scripture reading.
Jack didn't bother with public declarations.
I stayed close, my fingers tightening around his arm each time I felt him drift.
When the final prayer ended and the small group began to drift away, Jack remained in place. Everyone seemed to understand and not approach him.
Layla offered me a brief nod before leaving, giving us space. Only when the last car pulled out from the gravel path and the grounds fell into a deeper kind of silence did Jack speak.
“I didn’t even get to ask him all the questions I wanted answers to,” he mumbled.
I rubbed slow circles along his back, feeling the rigid tension beneath the fabric of his coat.
“He always had answers,” Jack added under his breath. “Even if they were the wrong ones. Now there’s just… nothing. I don't even get to know why he did what he did.”
My heart broke for him. “You don’t have to carry that weight alone,” I whispered. “You did everything you could.”
Jack tilted his head back and let out a breath that sounded like it had been caught in his chest for hours. "I must find out the answers he took to his grave."
That evening, the penthouse was eerie and the scent of chamomile tea lingered faintly, though neither of us had touched our mugs.
Then the doorbell rang.
I froze for half a second, my heart jumping strangely, before padding barefoot across the living room.
My silk robe was loosely tied, strands of hair falling down my shoulders.
When I opened the door, Layla stood there.
She looked tired.
“I just wanted to check in,” she said softly.
She hugged me briefly but tightly, and then her gaze flicked toward Jack. "How is he?"
I bit my lip as I glanced at him.
He sat slumped on the couch, elbow propped on one knee, head resting on his knuckles.
Then I gestured for her to sit.
Layla shook her head and held out some papers instead.
“I won’t stay long,” she said. “But you need to see this, Elena. All of it. When you can.”
I took the documents with both hands, my brows furrowing at the weight of them. I briefly wondered if it held the answers I pinned for about Jack, but it didn't seem like it.
Layla wasn’t the type to waste effort. If she brought something, then it mattered.
“I’ll go through them,” I promised, placing them gently on the console table.
Then instinctively, I wrapped my arms around her again. “Thank you,” I whispered, cherishing all over again all the times she stood by me like a real mother would.
She held me back with equal intensity as she had more to say but couldn't.
Then she pulled away, her voice dropping lower. “Elena, a whole lot is spiraling underneath that you don't know. There are things that I can't tell you or explain until I've confirmed it but... about Damien—I believe he's not just targeting you because of revenge anymore,” she said. “He’s a lunatic who wants to destroy Vale Corp, not for gain or even to prove something. It's just… for him to watch it burn.”
Jack’s gaze lifted, locking onto her.
“He’s that far gone?”
Layla nodded slowly. “He doesn’t care who goes down with it.”
The silence that followed was oppressive. Then Layla adjusted her coat. "Be careful." She mumbled as she moved towards the door.
I followed partway, but neither of us said goodbye. She only nodded once and stepped into the hallway as the door closed quietly.
But the tension remained as I walked back to Jack. He was sitting upright now, his hands clasped loosely together.
I sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched. My eyes flicked toward the documents but I didn’t want to open them yet.
Jack exhaled deeply and for the first time since the funeral, he looked directly at me.
“She’s right,” he said quietly. “Damien isn’t going to stop.”
I nodded as my jaw tightened. My mind was already brooding and calculating.
“But neither can we,” Jack added.