Chapter 3 - The Casket on the Screen
The livestream on the hospital tablet buffer cleared, revealing the vaulted stone interior of St. Michael’s Cathedral.
Beneath the soaring stained-glass windows, two hundred high-society mourners sat in hushed, somber silence.
At the front of the altar rested a magnificent mahogany casket draped in cascades of white calla lilies and silver satin ribbons.
Beside the empty casket stood an oversized oil portrait of me, captured three years ago at Northstar’s tenth-anniversary gala, smiling happily beside the man who had just tried to burn me alive.
Grant stood at the polished marble pulpit, holding a crisp linen handkerchief, his black silk tie slightly loosened in performative exhaustion.
His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with theatrical red, looking every inch the shattered young executive whose pregnant wife had been taken by a cruel, inexplicable tragedy.
“Hannah was the heartbeat of Northstar,” Grant’s voice cracked over the speakers, his baritone trembling with practiced grief. “She was not just my partner in business; she was the light that guided my life. And to know that our precious son, Noah, will never take his first breath in this world… is a pain that no man should ever have to bear.”
Several women in the front pews began to sob openly into their tissues.
Sitting directly behind Grant, in the seat reserved for the family’s chief corporate advisor, sat Brooke Ellis.
She wore a custom black Givenchy dress, her blonde hair pinned beneath a wide-brimmed mourning hat, her head bowed in solemn deference.
Underneath the lace brim, however, her painted lips curved into a faint, triumphant smirk as she glanced toward the row of Northstar board members.
“Look at her,” I whispered, leaning forward against the hospital pillows, my hands trembling with white-hot fury. “She’s already measuring the executive office.”
Marcus stood behind my bed, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his cold gray eyes tracking Grant’s every micro-expression on the screen.
“Grant is setting up the narrative,” Marcus murmured with clinical detachment. “He needs the board to view him as a wounded martyr so they won't question the emergency share consolidation this afternoon.”
On the screen, Grant turned toward the board of directors seated in Table One.
“In Hannah’s memory,” Grant continued, wiping a solitary tear from his cheek, “I have promised the trustees that I will step into the executive chairmanship tomorrow morning. We will expand Northstar into international charter flights, honoring the legacy she left behind.”
Expanding into charter flights.
My mother had strictly prohibited charter aviation, ensuring that every Northstar aircraft was reserved solely for emergency trauma rescues in rural, underserved communities.
Grant was preparing to gut my mother’s lifelong mission to turn our emergency fleet into luxury transports for foreign oligarchs.
“Arthur Davis is sitting in the third pew,” I pointed out, tapping the glass where our sixty-two-year-old chief pilot sat with his head in his hands. “Arthur flew medevac missions with my mother in the nineties. He looks like his soul has been ripped out.”
“Arthur is a good man,” Marcus agreed. “He refused to sign Grant’s operational safety waiver two days ago. Grant threatened to ground his pension if he didn't attend the memorial.”
On the screen, Grant descended from the pulpit, walking slowly to the mahogany casket.
He laid his hand flat against the polished wood, bowing his head as if offering a final, agonizing prayer to the ashes he believed were resting inside.
Brooke stepped forward, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, her fingers lightly caressing the nape of his neck as the pipe organ began to play Amazing Grace.
The mourners rose to their feet in a wave of sorrowful applause, paying tribute to the brave widower who had promised to carry the torch alone.
I turned the tablet screen off, the black glass reflecting my pale face, my dark eyes burning with an unshakeable, lethal resolve.
I glanced over at the bassinet, where Noah had just let out a tiny, contented squeak in his sleep.
“Marcus,” I said, sliding my legs over the edge of the bed and testing my footing on the polished floor.
“Easy, Hannah,” Marcus warned, stepping forward to catch my elbow. “The surgical staples are only three days old.”
“I don't care about the staples,” I said, standing tall despite the sharp pull across my abdomen. “The board meeting is scheduled for two o'clock at Northstar Tower, isn't it?”
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“One-thirty for the preliminary executive quorum,” Marcus confirmed, his eyes flashing with grim anticipation.
“Then find me a dress,” I commanded, looking into the mirror where the ghost of Evelyn Vance seemed to smile back at me. “Something dark. Something worthy of a woman who clawed her way out of an eighteen-hundred-degree furnace.”
