The Empress Who Buries Her Past

The world spun. My blood, already cold, seemed to drain from my veins. My father. Gone. Just like that. I lurched to my feet, a raw, inarticulate cry tearing from my throat. I stumbled past Alec, past Billie, past the remnants of my shattered life, and clawed at the office door. I had to get to him. I had to see him.

Alec' s shocked, disbelieving gaze was a dull ache in my peripheral vision, but I didn't care. I burst out of the office, half-running, half-stumbling down the hallway, desperate to reach my father, to see him one last time.

But the moment I stepped out of the building, a fresh wave of chaos erupted. The media, still lingering from Billie' s orchestrated ambush, swarmed me like hungry vultures. Their cameras flashed, their microphones thrust into my face, their voices a deafening roar.

"Ms. Frazier! Is it true you plagiarized designs from a struggling young artist for your new firm?"

"What about the rumors of financial mismanagement at Johns Development? Are you secretly siphoning funds?"

"Sources say you were seen assaulting Mr. Johns's assistant earlier today. Any comments on that?"

"Plagiarist! Fraud! Home-wrecker!" The accusations rained down on me, each word a stone hitting my already bruised soul.

"No!" I screamed, my voice hoarse with pain and desperation. "It's not true! None of it! Just... just let me pass! I need to get to the hospital!"

But my pleas were drowned out by their relentless barrage. My father was gone. I just needed to see him. To hold his hand. To say goodbye. But they wouldn't let me. My desperate struggle against the tide of bodies was futile, like trying to stem a tsunami with my bare hands.

"The live comments are calling her a 'heartless gold-digger'!" one reporter shouted, thrusting his phone in my face. "They're saying you're only interested in your husband's money, not his well-being!"

"She's clearly unstable! Look at her! A disgrace to her profession!" another chimed in, echoing the hateful comments scrolling on his screen.

Just then, Alec appeared, pushing his way through the crowd, his face grim. He must have followed me. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, almost bruising. His eyes, though still edged with shock, held a cold, calculated glint.

"Cydney, compose yourself!" he hissed, pulling me closer. "We need to address this professionally. Your father… I'll handle the arrangements. But right now, we need to present a united front to the media. This is a PR disaster for the company."

My eyes, filled with tears, met his. "My father is dead, Alec! He's dead! And you're talking about PR?! He was your father-in-law! He loved you!" I remembered my father, on his deathbed, apologizing to Alec, believing in his goodness. The irony was a cruel twist of the knife.

"Please, Alec," I begged, my voice cracking. "Just... get them away from me. I need to see him. One last time. Please."

His grip on my arm loosened for a fraction of a second. A flicker of doubt, of something akin to pity, crossed his face. A tiny spark of hope ignited within me. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a shred of humanity left in him.

But then, Billie burst through the crowd, her face a picture of fabricated distress. "Alec! Oh, Alec! They're still attacking me! My arm, it hurts so bad!" She stumbled, feigning weakness, and collapsed dramatically against a stunned reporter.

Alec' s attention snapped back to her. The flicker of humanity in his eyes vanished, replaced by the familiar, possessive concern. He shoved me away, almost sending me sprawling, and rushed to Billie's side.

"Billie, my love! Are you alright?" He scooped her up, his gaze never once meeting mine. "Take care of this, Cydney. You created this mess, you deal with it." His voice was cold, dismissive. "I'm taking Billie to the hospital. She needs medical attention."

He turned and pushed his way through the crowd, Billie clinging to him, her triumphant smirk hidden against his shoulder. He left me there, alone, vulnerable, facing the ravenous media. My body felt numb. He had chosen her. Again. Over my dying father. Over my shattered dignity.

I stood there, enduring their questions, their accusations, their mocking laughter. I answered each one with a detached calm, my mind numb with grief and humiliation. When they finally dispersed, satisfied with their pound of flesh, I hailed a taxi, my body aching, my mind a blank slate.

I arrived at the hospital, my shoes lost somewhere in the scramble, my clothes still reeking of garbage. I didn't care. I stumbled through the corridors, oblivious to the stares and whispers of unfamiliar faces. I just needed to get to his room.

"My father," I gasped, clutching the nurses' station counter. "Where is he? My father, Frazier Sr.?"

The nurse, a young woman with a kind face, looked at me with pity. "Oh, Ms. Frazier. I'm so sorry. Your father... he was taken to the crematorium an hour ago. Mr. Johns authorized it."

My world crashed down around me. Cremated? So quickly? Without me? "What?" I whispered, my voice barely a sound. "But... but I wanted to see him. I wanted to say goodbye."

The nurse's eyes darted around, then she leaned in, her voice low. "It was unusual, Ms. Frazier. Most families wait. But Mr. Johns was very insistent. He said it was your father's last wish." She paused, realizing she had perhaps said too much. "The family who signed the paperwork... they're still in the waiting room, if you want to speak to them." She pointed down the hall.

My legs moved on their own volition. I walked towards the waiting room, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. And there they were. Alec, his arm still around Billie, who was now sporting a small bandage on her forearm. They were laughing softly, their heads close, an electric intimacy thrumming between them. The picture of domestic bliss, solidified over my father's ashes.

I closed my eyes. The anger, the grief, the humiliation, all of it faded into a vast, empty void. There was nothing left. No more tears. No more fight. Just a profound, chilling emptiness. My phone vibrated in my hand. It was an alert from the airline: "Your flight to London is confirmed for tomorrow evening."

Another message popped up, this one from Sarah, my assistant at Frazier Designs. It was a picture of the roses Alec had brought to the studio yesterday, now wilting in a vase. "Ms. Frazier, the consultation room will be closed for two weeks. Where did these roses come from? There's a card tucked in them, but the writing is a bit smudged."

I zoomed in on the photo. The card, flimsy and cheap, bore Alec's familiar handwriting. Though blurred by the tea I' d thrown at Billie, the words were still painfully clear: "To my future wife, my muse, my one and only. With eternal love, Alec."

My "one and only." The words mocked me. I typed back a reply, my fingers steady. "Sarah, throw them out. And the card."

Just then, the waiting room door opened, and Billie stepped out, a knowing smirk on her face. She held a stack of papers. "Mrs. Johns," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "This is probably the last time I'll have to call you that. Alec agreed to the divorce. He wants you to sign these papers immediately. He's even included a generous settlement."