Chapter 4

Tasha’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what?”

Alaya sat bolt upright on the couch, her chest tight.

"Mr Westwood holdings has yet to release an official update. We'll bring you more updates as the story develops."

The screen showed a burning car wreck. A mangled heap of twisted black metal. Sirens. Flashing red lights. A white sheet.

A blurred outline of a body.

Tasha turned slowly, eyes wide. “...Did you know about this?”

Alaya’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I—I…”

Her voice cracked before it even got going.

No, this couldn’t be real. Her ears were ringing. Her body felt weightless, like it wasn’t even hers. She blinked rapidly, praying — begging — that this was all just a bad dream. That she was still back in the penthouse, curled up in bed with her mango juice and a magazine. That her man was still alive.

But the image of the wreckage burned into her mind.

And then came the tears. Slow at first. Then all at once.

She didn’t even realize she had slid to the floor until she was curled up in Tasha’s arms, sobbing like a child.

“He’s gone,” she choked out, her body trembling. “I saw him this morning. He kissed me goodbye, he said he’d be late—”

Tasha held her tight, running her hand slowly over her back. She’d never liked Darius — had never trusted the polished charm, the convenient lies — but none of that mattered now. Her best friend was breaking.

“Shhh… I got you, okay?” she murmured. “Just let it out.”

Alaya clutched at her robe like it was the last thing tethering her to reality. “How can someone just be here—and then not?”

Tasha didn’t answer. There were no answers.

Only silence, and grief, and questions that would never be asked out loud.

Meanwhile…

At the Westwood mansion, the press had already taken over.

Flashes lit up the grand foyer. Dozens of reporters lined the marble floor. The chandeliers above sparkled as if mocking the somber mood in the house.

Janelle Brooks wept delicately into the shoulder of Cynthia Westwood, Darius’s mother — though not too hard, careful not to smudge her makeup in front of the cameras.

“Oh, Mom… he’s gone,” she whispered, blinking back tears that didn’t quite reach her throat.

Cynthia, statuesque and composed, held her in a soft embrace. She didn’t shed a tear.

She couldn’t. Not here. Not yet.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You’re safe. We’ll get through this.”

Mr. Westwood stood beside them, tall and tight-lipped in a black suit, speaking to a swarm of reporters in his signature monotone.

“This is a painful ordeal,” he said, voice calm and cold. “We are mourning the loss of a brilliant man. My son.”

“Sir,” one reporter asked, leaning forward, “what happens now to Westwood Holdings?”

Janelle’s crying paused. Her head lifted slightly from Cynthia’s shoulder, eyes suddenly dry.

Cynthia noticed, but said nothing.

“My son worked tirelessly to build his legacy,” Mr. Westwood said. “And I will personally ensure it is left in the right hands.”

" And what about Alaya Moore, Darius's side chick?"

Mr Westwood wrinkled his face as though someone has just spat in his face. " There is no place for.... such in this family."

Another reporter shouted, “And the funeral?”

“In one week,” he replied curtly. “Private. Family only.”

A flick of his hand sent the bodyguards into motion.

“Thank you for respecting our privacy,” he said, and the reporters were briskly ushered out of the house like unwanted pests.

Janelle stood upright once the last camera turned off, checking her reflection in a nearby mirror.

Her lipstick was still flawless.

Back at Tasha’s apartment…

The room had gone quiet again. Alaya was curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor. The tea Tasha had given her was now cold, forgotten.

They watched the interview unfold on TV in stunned silence.

Tasha snorted. “Legacy in the right hands, huh? So… her?”

Alaya didn’t respond.

Her eyes were still glued to the screen. Her body frozen in place, her mind replaying the moment Darius kissed her that morning.

The same lips that had probably kissed Janelle an hour later.

And now…

“Do you think you’ll go to the funeral?” Tasha asked softly.

Alaya blinked, like she hadn’t heard her.

Would she go?

She wanted to say yes. Hell, she wanted to walk in there in the very robe they kicked her out in and demand everyone look her in the face.

But…

Would they even let her in?

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Tasha sighed, reaching for the remote. “Honestly, girl… you shouldn’t.”

“I loved him,” Alaya said suddenly, voice hollow. “I really did.”

“I know.”

“He promised me things. That we’d travel. That he’d make it public. That he was just waiting for the right time.”

Tasha looked at her sideways. “And you believed him.”

“I did,” Alaya said softly, ashamed.