Chapter 5

It had been seven days.

Seven days since the proposal.

Seven days since the eviction.

Seven days since the newsflash that turned her world upside down.

And today... today was the day Darius Westwood would be laid to rest in the ground.

Everyone close to him — family, business partners, media friends, and that snake Janelle — was already at the gravesite, dressed in black, sobbing into expensive tissues and saying their pretty goodbyes.

Everyone except Alaya Moore.

She was still on the couch in Tasha’s living room, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of Tasha’s oversized hoodies. Her hair was tied back, her face bare and tired. The funeral played on TV, muted.

She wanted to be there. More than anything.

But how could she show her face?

To the world, she was just the side chick. A stain on Darius’s legacy. The reason he cheated, the reason Janelle cried on camera, the reason people said he died in disgrace.

She’d become a headline, not a person.

And Darius… well, he was gone. No more promises to make. No apologies left to give. No redemption arc.

So what was the point?

A knock sounded at the door.

Alaya didn’t move. She barely blinked.

Tasha, who had been slicing fruit in the kitchen, glanced toward the door, then toward Alaya with a look of quiet disapproval.

“I’ll get it,” she muttered, wiping her hands.

Alaya didn’t even turn her head.

The door creaked open.

“Good morning,” came a man’s voice. Calm.

Familiar.

Alaya’s eyebrows knit together.

Tasha’s voice was curt. “Who are you?”

“Apologies,” the man said smoothly. “My name is Malik Westwood.”

That got Alaya’s attention.

She stood up slowly, walking to the door, her pulse quickening. Darius’s younger brother? The quiet one? She’d only met him once — briefly, at a charity gala Darius made her sneak into. He didn’t even acknowledge her then.

Now he was on her doorstep.

“Malik?” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Malik turned to her, his face professional but not unkind. “Alaya. It’s good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Her arms crossed instinctively. She didn’t trust anyone with the name Westwood right now. “If this is about the robe and the phone I walked out with, you’re welcome to invoice me.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m not here for that.”

“Then what?” Her voice was flat, tired.

“My brother… Darius… included you in his will,” Malik said gently. “He requested that you be present at the reading, should anything happen to him.”

The words barely made sense.

“He… put me in his will?” Alaya echoed, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “The same man who tossed me out like I was nothing?”

Malik didn’t answer that. He looked down for a second, as if unsure whether to speak on his brother’s behalf or not.

“All I can tell you is we can’t proceed without you. His instructions were very clear. So… if you’re willing?”

He stepped aside and gestured to the sleek black car parked out front.

Alaya stared at it.

A hundred thoughts raced through her mind. Confusion. Pain. Curiosity. Anger. Was this another setup? Another humiliation? What could he have possibly left her?

Tasha tugged her aside before she could respond.

“You don’t have to go,” she said under her breath. “They don’t deserve you. That family? The way they treated you—”

“I know,” Alaya interrupted. Her voice was quiet. Clear. “But I’m going.”

“Are you sure?”

Alaya looked down at her hands. “I need to know. Whatever it is. I need to know.”

---

The ride to the Westwood mansion was quiet.

Alaya stared out the window, the weight of a hundred memories pressing against her chest. She hadn’t seen this place since she’d been smuggled in through the side gate while Janelle hosted brunches on the front lawn.

Now she was walking through the front door.

Malik opened it for her without a word.

The house was buzzing with activity — servers clearing funeral trays, heels clicking across marble. But when she stepped into the grand dining room, the noise stopped.

Everything stopped.

Eyes turned.

Glares locked in.

Cynthia Westwood, tall and regal in black silk, was seated at the head of the table like a queen in mourning.

Mr. Westwood, stoic as always, stood by the window, sipping his scotch with a face carved from stone.

And Janelle, dressed in designer mourning clothes like she was auditioning for the role of grieving widow, sat with a tissue clutched dramatically in one hand.

“What is taking that boy so long?” Cynthia asked impatiently.

“He said he went to fetch someone important to the will reading,” Janelle replied, dabbing her eyes with exaggerated flair.

The door opened.

Malik stepped in.

And Alaya followed.

The reaction was instant.

“What the hell is she doing here?!” Janelle shouted, shooting to her feet like someone had slapped her.

Cynthia’s mouth fell open. “Malik. Is this a joke?”

“No,” Malik said calmly. “This is according to Darius’s final wishes. She was named.”

“You can’t be serious,” Janelle snapped. “She’s—she’s just the—”

“Side chick?” Alaya offered, lifting her chin. “You said it loud enough on national TV, might as well say it here too.”

Janelle bristled.

Cynthia rose from her chair. “You do not belong here.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Malik said smoothly, stepping beside Alaya like a shield. “It’s for the will to determine.”

Mr. Westwood finally turned to face her. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

Alaya didn’t flinch.

She walked to the empty chair at the far end of the table and sat.

She could feel the weight of their hatred on her skin, like heat from a fire. But she didn’t look down. She didn’t apologize.

If Darius had left her crumbs, she’d eat them in front of them all.

If he’d left her nothing, at least she’d know the truth.

The lawyer cleared his throat and opened the envelope.