Chapter 5-ON HER TERMS

The organ’s last notes faded into the silence of the chapel, leaving only the faint rustle of designer fabrics and murmured condolences. 

The Ashbourne funeral was supposed to be a statement of legacy, but all anyone could think about now was the ghost who had returned wearing heels sharp enough to cut through any pride.

Christine’s nails dug into the handle of her designer clutch as she leaned toward her son. Her whisper was anxious with an undertone of fear.

“Grant, we cannot let her walk out of here without confronting her.”

Grant kept his eyes fixed on Scarlett. She sat three rows ahead, poised in that tailored suit, her back a straight line of defiance. She hadn’t looked at him once the entire service. His throat tightened.

“This isn’t the place,” he muttered.

“It has to be the place.” Christine’s eyes flashed. “Do you think she came here by accident? She’s taunting us, parading herself in front of the entire city. We corner her before the ceremony ends. Before she slips away.”

Louis, sitting stiffly beside Christine, shook his head. “Mother, please. This is Father’s funeral, not a business negotiation.”

“This entire family is in danger of becoming a circus!” Christine hissed. “Every vulture in New York has their eyes on us. That woman cannot be allowed to dictate the narrative.”

Louis’s jaw tightened. “And storming her in the middle of the funeral would make us look dignified? No. We wait.”

Christine turned to Grant, voice low but urgent. “Grant, do you hear me? She’s playing a game. If you let her walk out untouched, she wins.It is not in our best interests and you know that.

Grant’s fingers dug into his knees. Every word only sharpened the storm building in his chest.His eyes never left Scarlett and that Blackwell of a man who stayed stuck beside Scarlett like they were fused together . The smug pride on his face made Grant ache to smack it right off.

Grant’s jaw clenched. He’d had enough of this. “Interests?” He finally replied to his mother, his voice was low, tight with restrained anger. “That’s all you ever see when it comes to Scarlett-interests. She’s not a bargaining chip anymore.”

Christine’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be foolish. She left you, she humiliated this family-”

“No.” Grant’s hand curled into a fist against his thigh. His heart was racing with a different urgency altogether. “We humiliated her. You used her. And I… I let it happen.” His throat tightened as he thought of her walking in earlier, untouchable, untamed.

He closed his eyes, the memory of the night she was forcefully sent out of their home sliced through him again. He’d give anything to go back in time, he would not make the same mistakes. He would still have her by his side as his own- his wife.

He opened his eyes again, his piercing stare would have killed Cassian on the spot if eyes could kill. Scarlett’s hair was now black, he wondered why. He loved her red hair.

Christine rolled her eyes. “What exactly are you planning to do, Grant? Run after her like a lovesick fool in front of the press? That will go over wonderfully.”

“I don’t care how it looks,” Grant muttered.

Before Christine could answer, movement stirred at the front.

Scarlett was rising.She slid on her sunglasses with deliberate grace, her every gesture calculated. The black lenses hid her eyes, but the faint curve of her mouth-a small , unreadable smile-was dagger enough.

Murmurs slipped from painted lips .Her heels shucked the marble in steady rhythm, echoing like countdown. The chapel itself seemed to bend around her. All eyes were locked on her, the coffin behind her forgotten.

 Her bodyguards closed in, forming a perfect wall as they ushered her forward. The timing was merciless-the priest had just spoken the final amen.

Christine’s breath caught. “She’s leaving-now!”

Grant’s pulse roared in his ears. Without another thought, he shoved past the pew.

“Scarlett!” His voice cut through the hush, raw and desperate.

She didn’t turn.

The crowd swelled, a restless tide of whispers and flashes as Scarlett glided toward the exit. Grant shoved through mourners, nearly colliding with a hedge fund mogul, but the bodyguards closed ranks, blocking him from reaching her.

“Move!” Grant barked, his voice fraying.

Just then, a figure stepped forward, broad as a wall. He didn’t flinch under Grant’s fury. Instead, he reached into his jacket and extended a small gold-edged card.

“Mr. Ashbourne. Miss Monroe asked me to give you this.”

Grant snatched it, eyes darting between the guard and Scarlett’s retreating figure. 

They were now outside.The Maybach door opened, swallowed her, and shut again with mechanical precision.

His gaze dropped to the card. It read:

I will not be meeting with the Ashbournes on Monday.You will be informed where and when-on my terms.

Grant’s breath hitched, his chest clenching tight. He looked up, but it was too late. The convoy was already sliding into motion, the taillights glowing like fire as Scarlett disappeared into the Manhattan streets.

Christine appeared by his side m, fury flashing in her eyes. “God help us, she has successfully turned the funeral to her stage.She’s mocking us. Do you see? She’s mocking us.”

But Grant barely heard her. His hand shook around the card, his pulse hammering in his ears. 

For a moment, the world seemed to still-then a crack of thunder ripped through the sky as the clouds darkened, it was so loud it rattled the stained-glass windows. Several mourners gasped, crossing themselves as though the heavens had delivered an omen.

From the altar, a towering vase of white lilies toppled, shattering against the marble floor with a loud crash. Petals and shards scattered in every direction, the sound echoing like bones snapping . Heads turned, loud chatters surged, but Grant didn’t move.His eyes were pinned on the maybach and SUVs driving away.

And for the first time in years, he felt it-the hollow ache of losing Scarlett all over again.

His unbearable truth was clear as day, he had made a grave mistake.