Chapter 6 Widow at Eighteen

The sky hung low and gray over the private Richards cemetery, clouds heavy with unshed tears.

Six black horses pulled a carriage carrying a body-less casket, treated with every ounce of honor due a fallen soldier. An Ivory City flag, crisp and white, was draped across it.

Beside the carriage walked a horse with no rider, its saddle polished and empty a silent symbol of the leader who would ride no more.

Behind them marched his platoon, each man in full uniform, faces drawn and eyes fixed ahead as a low, mournful tune drifted through the air.

At the back of the procession stood Heaven, her black veil fluttering in the drizzle. She was attending the burial of a man she had married and never met.

Captain Boyle Richards.

In her hands, she held the only thing she had ever seen of him, his photograph.

On the very day of their wedding, he had gone missing in action. For a month, the military scoured the northern border where he had been on mission, searching through ashes and wreckage. In the end, the reports were all the same, no body, no survivors. He was gone.

Beside her walked General Richard, Boyle’s father, his medals glinting dully beneath the rain. His mother, Eleanor Richards, wept softly beside him, her veil trembling with every breath.

And then there was Maverick Richards—Boyle’s younger brother—composed, unreadable, his military uniform pristine despite the weather. His face revealed nothing.

The air was thick with grief, yet Heaven felt nothing.

How did one mourn a stranger?

How did one cry for a man whose voice she had never heard, whose hand she had never held yet whose last name she now carried?

The drizzle deepened as they reached the gravesite. The casket was lowered onto a platform, the flag rippling gently in the wind.

A chaplain stepped forward, his black robe soaked with rain.

“Today, we lay to rest Captain Boyle Richards,” he began solemnly. “A man who led with honor and lived with courage. May his soul find peace, and may his legacy never fade.”

He bowed his head, then stepped back.

The command followed, sharp and reverberating.

“Ready—aim—fire!”

Three volleys shattered the silence. Birds scattered from nearby trees, their wings beating against the gray sky. When the echoes faded, a bugle began to play—slow, haunting, sad.

Two guards approached the coffin, folding the flag with practiced precision. When they finished, one knelt before Heaven, presenting it with care.

“Mrs Boyle Richards,” he said quietly, “on behalf of the nation and the citizens of Ivory City, please accept this flag as a symbol of our gratitude for your husband’s faithful service.”

Heaven’s cold hands closed around the flag.

The fabric felt heavy, heavier than any burden she had ever carried.

All she had wanted was to save her family.

Instead, she had sold herself into widowhood.

She had braced herself to be a wife to a stranger, hoping love might bloom with time. But now she was bound to a ghost.

When the casket was lowered into the grave,the rain began to fall strongly. A soldier stepped forward and offered Heaven an umbrella. She accepted it wordlessly, her fingers tightening around the folded flag in her other hand.

One by one, the soldiers began to leave the cemetery. Some bowed their heads to the grave; others gave her a brief, respectful nod as they passed. The once-crowded field grew quiet, leaving only a few mourners lingering.

Mrs. Richards broke down completely when the casket disappeared into the earth. The General had to guide his wife away, his arm firm around her trembling shoulders. Heaven watched them go, unsure whether to follow or stay behind.

A sudden roar split through the clouds.

Heaven flinched. The wind surged, catching the folded flag. It slipped from her grasp as she lunged to grab it. The wet grass betrayed her her heel slid, the umbrella torn from her hand and carried away by the wind.

Strong hands caught her before she could fall.

Maverick.

His grip closed around her upper arm, firm and unyielding, pulling her back against solid muscle. For a heartbeat, she was pressed close, close enough to feel the rise of his chest beneath his uniform, close enough to catch the faint scent of rain and steel clinging to him as the rain fell harder around them.

Her breath hitched. She gently pulled away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered instinctively, reaching for the flag at the same time he did.

Their fingers collided again. Heaven pulled back as though his touch burned.

Slowly, Maverick bent and retrieved the flag himself, his movements controlled and precise. When he straightened, he didn’t hand it back immediately. His eyes lingered on her face searching, assessing.

He extended the flag toward her at last.

As she took it, her fingers brushed his again softer this time, hesitant. She withdrew at once, lowering her gaze.

“Careful,” he said, colder now. “This isn’t the place for you to create a scene.”

Maverick stepped back, putting distance between them.

Her head snapped up, startled. “I wasn’t creating a scene, I—”

He cut her off with a cold look.

He thought she had stumbled on purpose. He thought the fall was to draw attention.

Heaven’s cheeks burned, shame flooding her chest.

“I would never do that,” she added softly, her voice etched with hurt.

“Go wait by the car,” came his command.

Ending the conversation, he turned and walked back toward the remaining officers, his back rigid, shoulders squared.

Heaven pouted and obeyed.

She stood by the black car that would take her back to the Richards’ mansion, the folded flag pressed tightly to her chest, the umbrella tilted over her head. The scent of rain and wet earth surrounded her.

“Heaven?”

Her head turned sharply at the familiar voice.

“Mother?” she breathed, her voice cracking. She rushed forward, a shaky smile breaking through her grief.

Relief washed over her like warmth after a long chill. She wasn’t alone. Her mother was here.

But before she could say another word, her mother’s tone shifted.

“What are the Richards going to do about you now?”

The question stunned her.

“What do you mean?”

Her mother sighed, eyes darting toward the family car. “They can’t send you back, Heaven. We don’t have the money anymore. We used everything to clear the loan.”

Heaven’s brief relief slipped away, replaced by the same cold dread she’d felt since the announcement of Boyle’s death.

“I… can’t I come home?” she whispered. “I don’t want to stay there forever. I don’t want to be a widow for the rest of my life.”

Her mother’s eyes hardened the answer already there.

“Unless you want your father to borrow money from the loan sharks again?”

Heaven shook her head.

“Heaven, listen to me,” her mother said quietly. “Now that your husband is gone, you must be wise. Stay close to the next highest-ranking member of that family…I saw him hold you. Good,go closer to him. Do what your mother-in-law says. Protect your place. Build favors. We can’t go back into debt.”

Heaven’s throat tightened, her eyes glistened.

Before she could respond, a low voice interrupted.

“Young Madam, it’s time to leave.”

The driver stood beside the car, umbrella in hand. A few steps beyond him, Heaven caught sight of Maverick already seated inside, posture straight, expression unreadable.

“Please, ma’am,” the soldier added politely.

Heaven looked back at her mother one last time before stepping into the car, clutching the folded flag as the door closed.

The Richards’ mansion awaited her and with it, a future she hadn’t chosen.

Inside the car, Maverick’s jaw ticked once