Page 1 of Forged By Shadows
Prologue
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Stop wringing the hem of your dress. Sit up straighter. Face forward. Don’t appear irritated by whoever dared to laugh at the back of the room. Ignore the flash of cameras. Remember who you were raised to be.
Despite my inner chastising, each inhale coincides with a stabbing pain in my chest. If I wasn’t surrounded by people watching my every move, I’d give into those urges rising within. To scream, lash out and smash a whole bunch of shit. Not the appropriate response in front of the press and celebrities streaming into the room at their leisure.
I steal a glance at the back of the room. Anger flares within me, a brief, hot flame that quickly extinguishes, leaving only the cold emptiness behind. They have no idea what this day means, what I’ve lost.
The service is twenty-three minutes late so far, and apparently I’m the only one counting.
From my seat in the front row, I watch those shuffling forward to pay their respects to the open casket. I listen to their wishes for eternal peace, and nod politely when they offer rehearsed condolences. The question in their furrowed brows bounces off the practiced mask I keep firmly in place.
What’s going to happen to you now? Where are the rest of your family?
Sighing, I stare longingly at the huge portrait at the front of the room. Usually, the conservatory is my favorite place to be. Filled with light and the scent of freshly cut grass drifting in from the rolling gardens. But not today. Today, the plush cream sofa, hanging plants and rows of bookcases have been removed. Instead, chairs dressed with teal bows divide the guests into two clear categories either side of the walkway. Those who knew my mom personally, and those who wish they had.
A hushed silence settles behind me, the low click of the rear doors being closed exploding within my head. I quickly glance to the wall of glass before me, dampening the impulse to vault over my mom’s casket, use my body to smash through and run until I collapse. The press, who have permission to be here, would have a field day. My lips part, precious air slipping inside.
Don’t freak out. Don’t make a scene.
I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the grief pressing down on me. It’s a suffocating, relentless force, threatening to pull me under. How am I supposed to keep going without her? She was my anchor, my guide through every storm. Now, I’m adrift, drowning even, and no one nearby is coming to save me.
My gaze returns to the portrait, and I imagine her smiling down at me, offering the comfort I so desperately crave. I want to feel her arms around me, hear her voice telling me it’s going to be okay. But that’s not possible anymore.
There’s a brief disturbance before the doors click shut again, snapping me back to the present. I take another deep breath, forcing myself to remain composed. This is what she would have wanted – for me to be strong, to face this with dignity. I can do this. I have to do this. For her.
A body crashes into the seat next to mine, arms locking around my numb torso. I flinch at the sting jolting through my hands, only now realizing my nails were embedded into my palms.
“Shit, Avery. I’m so, so sorry I’m late.” My best friend, Meg, whispers as my adoptive father walks down the central aisle. “The security outside is unreal.” Using my shoulder to sweep her brunette hair aside, Meg’s head nestles in the crook of my neck. Meg’s presence is a balm, settling over me like a weighted blanket.
Fuck. I hadn’t even considered that she might have been stuck at the gates, no doubt with many others trying to get into the funeral of the year, as if it is a red carpet event. To be fair, I haven’t considered anything in the past few weeks I’ve spent laying in bed.
Tears gather in my eyes, the finality of what’s about to happen making me dizzy. I watch the tired, well-dressed man take his place beside his wife’s body without really taking notice. Her portrait stares at him, a humble smile on her perfectly painted face. Jade colored eyes glimmer from within the canvas, an incredible accuracy to their unique brightness. She is stunning. Was stunning.
With love in his wrinkled features, Nixon begins to speak with more composure than I could have managed.
“Thank you all for coming. Today, we gather to remember a remarkable woman whose radiant spirit illuminated the lives of all fortunate enough to know her. My beloved Catherine. Her infectious laughter has echoed through every room in this house, and her love, compassion and understanding is what made it a home for our two beautiful children.”
Nixon smiles towards me kindly, ignoring the obvious which everyone else has noticed. The empty seat and unclaimed flower buttonhole at my side. “I hope you will join me in celebrating her life and giving her the send-off she deserves.”
Nixon continues to deliver a flawless eulogy which drifts between heartfelt and poetic, enthralling those watching within the room and down the camera lens. To the rest of the world, she was a coveted model, an award-winning actress. A charity fundraiser who invested her time and money into saving countless lives - including mine.
I was just a poor, abused girl in the right place at the right time. No one usually adopts an eleven year old, but typically that same coveted model, award-winning actress and charity fundraiser wouldn’t have driven in a shady neighborhood and happened to spot said-eleven year old abused girl digging in the trash for food. From the moment she found me, there hasn’t been a day that Cathy Hughes hasn’t seen me well fed, cared for and loved.
She was the woman who saved me from the depraved life I was born into. The woman who showed me love and warmth. Who would snuggle under a duvet and read with me whenever she wasn’t away working. I bite my bottom lip hard. I still can’t believe she’s gone.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of camera flashes and repetitive eulogies from actors who barely knew her. By the time the service comes to an end, the only thing distracting me from my itchy eyes is the growling in my stomach. I can’t remember the last time I ate, as if surviving today was all I could focus on and I didn’t spare a thought for what happens now.
Nixon rises from the seat he took beside me, holding out his hand. His peppered dark hair has been styled back from his handsome yet weary face, an impeccably crisp navy suit clinging to his frame that seems at odds with the stubble lining his jaw. Blue eyes settle on me, a look of adoration passing through his features.
“You did good, sweetheart.” My chest swells, preceding the dam breaking and all of my withheld emotion flooding free. I need to get out of here. Inhaling my first full breath since I heard of that fatal car crash, I rise to my feet. Nixon and I approach the casket, taking turns to place one last kiss onto her forehead. Long eyelashes fan her rosy painted cheeks, her chocolate brown hair pooling around her favorite chiffon dress.
“Thank you for showing me how to love,” I whisper. Nixon catches the tear that leaks from my eye with the back of his hand before it can land, pulling me into his side for a hug. His strong heartbeat and gentle scent of cigar allow me to briefly hide from the imposing stares and cameras.
Bright flashes assault us as we push our way, arm in arm, through the crowd waiting to offer their support. Meg steps into my other side, creating a wall which sees us to the rear conservatory doors. The crowd falls behind, hands patting our backs and stroking my long, blonde hair. More cameras flash, more false sympathy. Shrugging them off, I blink several times to banish the sparks from my vision. All of a sudden, I’m peering up into the most intense emerald green eyes. His presence hits me with the weight of a dumpster truck. I recoil on instinct before the anger breaks through.
“Wyatt.” Nixon nods to his son in greeting, not seeming at all pissed Wyatt missed the majority of his own mother’s funeral. I reckon Nixon expected nothing less. Wyatt’s attention stays focused on me, a scowl forcing his sharp jaw to appear deadly. Dark curls fall into his face; the scruffy skater boy look at odds with the suit and tie sitting lazily on his muscled frame. Leaving the top few buttons of his white shirt undone, the edges of black ink lingers just beneath. I purse my lips.
I refuse to let him intimidate me today.
