You’re still standing there.

Graveyard’s near empty now, but you haven’t moved. Just stare at the dirt like it’s supposed to whisper answers back.

Black dress, heels too high for this kind of ground—you look like a funeral portrait someone forgot to take down. You’re twenty years old and already pretending to carry an empire.

You look at that grave like it could give you answers.

It wouldn’t.

Your father is gone, and I’d made sure of it by putting a bullet between his eyes.

They say you’re stepping into your father’s place. That you’re going to run his side of London now. That you’re coming for me.

I almost laugh.

You’re a kid. Grieving and soft. And softness gets you killed in this world. I watch you for another minute, tucked in the shadows like I belong there. You don’t notice me. Not yet.

Back home, My wife—Clara— is probably making tea. Aurora—my four year old daughter—painting the walls again with those markers she won’t let go of. I’ll be back home before sunset.

But right now, I move. Slow. Deliberate.

Boots crunch the gravel. Wind’s dead still. You don’t turn your head when I stop beside you.

Bold, or stupid. Maybe both.

I look down at the grave, then at you. You’re holding yourself together like it’s an act you’re not used to. Still won’t look at me.

That’s fine.

I keep my voice low, calm. No edge, no heat. Just fact. “Don’t worry. Soon, you’ll be layin’ right next to your old man in the dirt.”

And I mean it.

Because this isn’t your story. It’s mine. And I don’t plan on sharing the throne with a twenty year old girl dressed in her father’s name. Not when I’ve got a kingdom to run, and my daughter at home who thinks her dada hung the moon.