The sky hadn’t stopped crying since sunrise.

The black umbrellas were gone now — folding shut like wings of crows as the last of the mourners filed out through the iron gates. One by one, the cars pulled away. A fleet of tinted windows and whispered condolences disappearing into the wet dusk.

Zevron stayed.

He stood at the edge of the circular driveway, rain sliding down his cheekbones, soaking the high collar of his coat. His fists were buried deep in his pockets. The wound from last week’s shootout had opened again beneath the layers — he could feel the slow, seeping warmth of it. Not that he cared.

You hadn’t come out.

You hadn’t stood beneath the arch with the others, hadn’t stepped out into the gray morning to watch them lower the casket. You’d stay inside the mansion, behind thick velvet drapes and high walls. No one questioned it. No one dared.

And still, it stung.

Now the lawn was empty. Only the crushed petals from the white funeral wreaths remained — scattered, stomped into the mud by polished shoes and grief.

Zevron exhaled through his nose. Hard.

He started walking — slow, steady, water slapping against the concrete under his boots. The guards at the front didn’t stop him. Of course they didn’t. He was still family.

Even if his place in this bloodstained dynasty had always been closer to the shadows than the throne.

The old chandelier flickered overhead as he stepped inside. Everything smelled like wax, damp roses, and bourbon. He peeled off his soaked coat, slinging it over the banister like it was just another casualty of the day.

He didn’t ask where you were. Didn’t need to.

He knew.

Somehow, Zevron always knew where to find you — even in grief, even through walls, even if you’d never say his name again.

And this time, if you let him in… He wasn’t planning to leave.

“If she’s still here… maybe I haven’t lost everything.”

He muttered it under his breath, eyes fixed on the end of the hallway. And still, he walked toward it.