The VanLauron Inheritance

CHAPTER ONE

And for the first time since arriving, I allowed myself to feel the weight fully—the absence of him, the hollow spaces he had filled, the warmth that would no longer be pressed against mine during mornings in the garden, the quiet hum of shared understanding that belonged only to us.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the faint draft brush across my face, carrying with it the scent of old stone, polished wood, and the distant, sweet whisper of the gardens he had loved. My hands rested in my lap, fingers lightly touching, tracing the edge of the fabric of my coat, grounding myself in what remained, in memory, in the gentle ache of missing him.

The cousins whispered softly behind me, words muffled by distance and ceremony, but I did not turn. I could sense the careful performances, the practiced manners, the half-hidden tensions, and I let them wash over me. I was present here, but also not. I was mourning. I was remembering. I was listening.

And the estate seemed to lean in, as though it remembered too.

The doors of the ceremony room swallowed me with the faint scent of lilies and polished wood. Light filtered through the tall, arched windows, falling in pale golden strips that cut across the marble floor. Everything seemed almost reverent, frozen—like the estate itself had paused to acknowledge his absence. I adjusted the strap of my bag, though it was already resting lightly against my side, and moved toward the edge of the room, careful not to disturb the delicate hush of mourners.

Rows of chairs were arranged with precise symmetry, every angle and distance deliberate. White lilies leaned in their vases, soft roses peeking through, and a faint trail of candle wax glimmered where no one dared touch. The atmosphere carried both elegance and a quiet weight, the kind that pressed against your chest without notice until you inhaled too sharply. My fingers brushed the edge of my coat as I found my seat near the back, slightly removed from the main cluster, where I could observe without being noticed.

The cousins were clustered at the front, whispering with perfect timing. Their voices were low, calculated, but I could hear the subtle undertones—the faint catch of amusement, the carefully suppressed judgment. Olive and Olivia mirrored each other perfectly, even in the tilt of their heads and the slight lift of their eyebrows. Mandy leaned toward Steven, lips pressed together in a careful smirk that promised judgment; he offered a polite nod back, but I noticed the tension in his jaw. John shifted constantly, smoothing his tie, like the fabric itself might betray his intent.

I exhaled softly, letting the rhythm of my breath match the quiet hum of the room. I didn't envy them their performances. Grief wasn't a game, though everyone here seemed determined to make it one. I pressed my palms together in my lap, feeling the weight of the estate around me, the cold marble beneath my heels, the soft brush of fabric against my skin. The air was heavy with mourning, yes, but also with something else: restraint, calculation, the subtle hint of anticipation that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

The portraits lining the walls stared down, past generations of VanLaurons frozen in oil and canvas, their eyes dark and watchful. Some were familiar, some strange, yet all seemed to carry the same unspoken expectation: to maintain the family's image, even in sorrow. I felt a pang in my chest, a twist of longing for him, for Grandpa Alden's warmth, his wry humor, the way he had taught me to notice what others overlooked.

A soft draft brushed past me, carrying a chill from somewhere deep within the halls. I shivered slightly, and my gaze flicked toward the locked side door I had noticed outside. Its presence was subtle, almost dismissible—but it tugged at my memory, whispering of secrets, of quiet corners where Grandpa had spent hours tending to things that mattered only to him. I pressed my fingers lightly to the edge of my coat, imagining the faint scratch of ivy under my fingertips, the soft weight of soil in my palms.