Chapter 55

EMILIA

They say ignorance is bliss.

Whoever said that has never buried their brother.

I stand in the rain, dressed in all black, clutching an umbrella like it can hold me together. But nothing can. Not today.

My eyes blur as I stare at the headstone:

Luther Christian Vanderbilt

(1995–2018)

Just seeing it makes it hard to breathe.

In front of me, my mother—always perfect, always cold—is on the ground, sobbing like a child. Her elegant coat is soaked, her hands shaking as she reaches for the gravestone like she can pull him back.

My father stands beside her, trying to hold the umbrella over them both, but he’s crying too hard to see straight.

And then there’s my little sister, Diana, standing beside me, shaking with anger and grief. She looks so much like Luther when she smiles and like me when she cries.

But she’s not smiling now.

She’s sobbing—and every tear feels like a dagger.

“Was it worth