The Last Goodbye
The sky wore mourning clothes that morning.
Thick, gray clouds rolled like grief over the Yran family estate as a single black limousine pulled into the cemetery gates. Inside, eight-year-old Rayna Yran sat beside her father, her legs barely reaching the edge of the leather seat. She wore a black dress and patent shoes that still had the price tag tucked beneath them. Her small hands clutched a folded handkerchief—not because she was crying, but because she didn't know what else to do with them.
The world outside the window blurred with rain. People in suits and veils stood silently beside the white coffin nestled in the earth. A few whispered words were spoken. A priest read from a little black book. A hand touched her shoulder.
"Come, sweetheart," her father said.
She didn't move.
The man beside her wasn't the same man who used to swing her on Saturday mornings or braid her hair with shaking fingers. His eyes were sunken, red-rimmed, and hollow. His hand trembled as he held hers and guided her out of the car.
Rayna stared at the coffin. It looked too small to hold her mother. Too clean. Too still.
She didn't cry. She couldn't.
The words were too heavy in her chest, and the tears—if they had existed—had dried up the night her mother died, bleeding out while trying to bring Rayna into this world. What kind of cruel joke was that? A life for a life. And now, even at eight, she carried that guilt in her tiny chest.
When the first shovel of dirt hit the lid of the coffin, she flinched. Her father winced too.
"Daddy," she whispered, eyes wide. "Is she... really gone?"
His mouth opened, then closed again. For the first time in his life, the billionaire titan—Victor Yran—couldn't find the right words. He knelt beside her in the wet grass, soaked to the bone, and held her face in both hands.
"She's with the angels now," he whispered.
"But why did she have to go?"
He swallowed hard. "Sometimes the world takes from us what we love most. But I promise, I will never let anything happen to you. Ever."
She wanted to believe him. She really did.
But life has a cruel way of breaking promises—especially the ones made at gravesides.
---
Chapter Two
The Arrival of Shadows
Weeks passed. The house grew quiet.
Rayna's mother had always filled the mansion with music—jazz in the mornings, soft ballads in the evenings. Without her, silence crawled across every marble floor and crystal chandelier like a spider's web.
Her father worked longer hours. The staff moved quietly. And Rayna wandered like a ghost between rooms that suddenly felt too big for her small footsteps.
Then Carmelita arrived.
It was a Thursday. Rayna remembered because the kitchen usually smelled like honey rolls on Thursdays—but that day it smelled like strange perfume and cigarette smoke. Carmelita breezed in with her sharp red heels and expensive coat, dragging two suitcases and two daughters behind her like luggage.
"Victor, darling," she said in a voice too sugary to be sincere. "You poor thing. Look at you. Skin and bones."
Victor hugged her briefly. "Thanks for coming, Carm."
Carmelita's eyes flicked to Rayna. "And this must be little Rayna. Oh, sweetheart." She knelt with exaggerated grace and cupped Rayna's chin. "You look just like your mother. Such a... delicate little thing."
Rayna didn't speak. Something about the woman made her chest tighten.
Dakila and Divina stood behind their mother, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like they were already planning what to steal. They were older—teens—and both wore branded jackets and expensive jewelry that clashed with their scowls.
"This place is huge," Divina muttered. "It's about time we lived like this."
Victor didn't hear them—or pretended not to.
Rayna just held her teddy bear tighter.
---
Within a month, the house began to change.
Rooms that had once been filled with family portraits were redecorated with Carmelita's modern tastes. Rayna was moved into a smaller room, while Dakila took hers. Divina claimed her late mother's music room and turned it into a walk-in closet.
"It's just until the renovations are done," Carmelita said, sipping wine that Rayna wasn't allowed to touch. "You want your cousins to feel at home, don't you?"
Victor, tired and grieving, nodded. "Of course. Family is family."
But Rayna saw the truth.
Carmelita's smiles were only for Victor. Her commands—sharp and cold—were for Rayna.
"Do your cousins' laundry."
"Set the table."
"Stay out of my way."
Rayna didn't complain. She didn't know how. The only person who noticed was Rosa, the old maid who'd known her mother.
"Keep your head up, niña," Rosa whispered while helping her wrap a bandage after she slipped on wet tiles. "Your mama was a fighter. And so are you."
Rayna wanted to believe that.
---
Time passed. Rayna grew.
On her twelfth birthday, she received no cake. No presents. Just a pile of laundry and a list of chores.
She found an old, empty journal in a drawer and began to write.
> "Today, I turned twelve.
I cooked breakfast for my cousins.
I washed Aunt Carmelita's car.
I cried once. No one saw.
Daddy is always working.
Sometimes I think he's avoiding me.
Sometimes I think I'm invisible.
But I know I'm not weak. I won't be weak.
Not forever.