Chapter Two-Hundred Fifty: The Final Tribute

Chapter 250

The Final Tribute

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of Deimos’ bedroom window, casting long, dusty beams across the chaotic landscape of his life. He lay motionless in his bed, the tangled sheets a nest amidst the surrounding clutter. Stacks of half-read fanzines leaned precariously on the nightstand, and discarded clothes formed soft, colorful dunes across the floor. The air smelled faintly of his feet and the lingering scent of coffee.

Deimos felt a heavy, familiar lethargy in his limbs, but the weight on his chest was a welcome one. He was wearing a black tank top and dark plaid pajama pants, the fabric soft against his skin. Tucked securely against him was Leo, his tuxedo kitten, whose rhythmic purring vibrated through Deimos’ ribs like a tiny, living engine. He reached out a hand to scratch behind Leo’s ears, watching the kitten’s eyes squeeze shut in contentment.

The door cracked open, and his father, Giorgos, poked his head in and made a disgusted sound.

Giorgos: “Deimos, this room is a pigsty! How can you live like this?!”

He flung the door open, wearing a black American-cut suit, a white pressed shirt, a black tie, and black captoe shoes. Deimos heaved a deep sigh. I don’t need this shit now, he thought.

Monica stepped in wearing a black dress with a black cardigan over it and black heels.

Monica: “Giorgos, please. Today is not the day.”

She knitted her eyebrows. Giorgos rolled his eyes.

Giorgos: “I wish he would clean up his mess! Every time I come home, Deimos is doing nothing with his life! His brother isn’t faring much better, but I don’t have to come home to that hot mess!”

He threw his arms up.

Monica closed the door over.

Monica: “It’s Sylvia’s funeral.”

She sighed. Giorgos bowed his head.

Giorgos: “Yes, I’m aware of that, Monica. If it weren’t for her, Deimos would have to join the military to survive and not lie in his bedroom moping around, lying in THAT GODDAMN MESS!”

He angrily pounded on his door. Monica inhaled sharply and clasped her hands over her nose.

Monica: “Giorgos, please.”

She chided him gently. Giorgos heaved a deep sigh as his jaw tightened.

Giorgos: “Both of my sons are disappointments.”

He straightened his suit jacket.

Giorgos: “I assume Deimos is not coming with us.”

Monica shook her head.

Monica: “The first and last funeral he attended was Diamantina’s.”

She said sadly. Giorgos heaved a deep sigh.

Giorgos: “Right, those boys… are like their mother.”

He said exasperatedly.

Deimos tightly furrowed his eyebrows.

Deimos: “Yeah, I’m not fuckin’ impressed with you either, Dad.”

He muttered bitterly.

~

Stretched out naked across his bed, Jaxon was illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the vertical blinds. As his eyes fluttered open, he turned his head toward the digital clock on the nightstand, which read 12:41. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes with his fists, got out of bed, and stretched before heading into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a shower.

An hour later, Jaxon stepped out of the shower, freshly showered, with his silk dragon robe draped over his shoulders and open, exposing his naked body. Noah’s eyes widened briefly, and he cleared his throat. He had grown used to this from both Percy and Jaxon now. Jaxon raked his fingers through his hair.

Noah: “Afternoon, Jaxon. Will you be attending Sylvia’s funeral?”

Jaxon heaved a deep sigh and shook his head.

Jaxon: “No.”

He pursed his lips.

Jaxon: “I didn’t know her, and she died for a stupid reason anyway.”

He pulled his robe over and tied it with a sash. Noah locked his gaze on him as he stepped outside.

As the warm summer breeze blew gently through his hair, Jaxon leaned forward and rested his arms on the railing.

He pulled a cigarette from his robe pocket and flipped open his Zippo lighter with a metallic click. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, watching the smoke drift lazily into the humid air. A peaceful quiet filled the air, with the only sounds being the chirping of birds, the wind blowing gently through the trees, and the gentle melody of the wind chime hanging by his patio.

Jaxon: “It was a stupid reason, Noah. Blair’s funeral would’ve been today if she let Ichiro turn him into those… things.”

He exhaled a long drag.

Jaxon: “Not like Blair gives a shit about what happened to her.”

He saw Celeste and Fabien step out of their house. Fabien had his hair slicked back. He wore a black Italian-cut suit, a black pressed shirt, a black tie, and black cap-toe Oxfords. Celeste wore a black V-neck dress, black strappy sandals, a black wide-brimmed hat adorned with a black rose, and black opera gloves.

Jaxon: “You guys goin’ to Sylvia’s funeral?”

He asked them.

Fabien: “Yeah.”

Jaxon: “To laugh at Blair’s bullshit?”

He rolled his eyes and inhaled a long drag. Fabien laughed.

Fabien: “Yeah, but also no. Celeste knew her well, and she did a lot for Demetirio.”

He replied.

Jaxon: “She died for a dumb cause.”

Celeste sighed.

Celeste: “Yeah, Jax, we all know that, but Sylvia wouldn’t listen to us to let that loser die. She wanted to protect him, and she did.”

She looked away, knowing Jaxon was right, but she also knew how protective Sylvia was of that family.

The sun shone down, gleaming against the sleek metal of Fabien’s 1970 Shelby Mustang as he approached it. Opening the door on the driver’s side, he settled into the leather seat and took hold of the steering wheel. Celeste got into the passenger’s seat beside him and clicked the door shut.

Fabien: “You doin’ okay, chérie?”

With a nod, Celeste offered a small smile.

Acknowledging her with a nod, he turned the key in the ignition, prompting the engine to roar to life with a deep, potent rumble that vibrated through the car's frame. He engaged reverse gear, stole a glance backward, and carefully backed the Mustang out of the driveway. Clearing the curb, he shifted the vehicle into drive; the engine growled responsively as he pressed the accelerator, gliding smoothly down the street.

~

After showering, brushing his teeth, and freshening up, Tristan sat at his vanity. Dressed in a white pressed shirt, a black tie, black pants, and black sheer socks, he gazed at his reflection while brushing his long white hair.

Today is Sylvia’s funeral, he thought as he set his brush down and spritzed on some Oxford Bleu cologne. He heard a gentle knock on his door.

Tristan: “It’s open.”

He called. The doorknob turned, and Jasper stepped inside. He wore a red English-cut suit, a white pressed shirt, a yellow tie, and brown whole-cut Oxfords. He smiled sadly at Tristan.

Jasper: “Afternoon, Tristan.”

Tristan: “Hello, Jasper. What can I do for you?”

He asked as he turned to the older man. Jasper rubbed the back of his neck and stood erect.

Jasper: “Would today be a good day to ask your father the big question?”

Tristan paused and inhaled sharply.

Tristan: “Jasper, with all due respect, I just lost a dear friend of mine and am not feeling jovial at the moment.”

He said firmly but gently. Jasper hung his head.

Jasper: “So I should wait until you do? When will that be?”

He asked. Tristan sighed.

Jasper: “I love your father very much, Tristan. It has no date when I ask him.”

Tristan drew another long breath. Days like these, I wish I could head to Percy’s for a drink or two or three or four, he thought.

Tristan: “Jasper, please listen to me…”

He brought his hands together in a prayer-like gesture as he spoke.

Tristan: “You know Papa takes everything personally. If I am not in my best mood, he will take it as me not supporting you two, and I don’t want that any more than you do. It’s not a good day for a celebration.”

He said calmly. Jasper hung his head.

Jasper: “If you’re against—”

Tristan banged his fist on the vanity.

Tristan: “That is NOT what I said! I am not feeling up to par to celebrate, okay?!”

He snapped. Jasper looked deeply hurt.

Jasper: “I am sorry to bother you, young man.”

He said as he walked out.

Tristan shook his head and removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. Bastien stood in the doorway. He wore a pale yellow button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a brown vest, brown pants, and brown loafers.

Bastien: “What’s wrong, Tristan?”

He murmured.

Tristan: “It’s not a good day for Jasper to ask Papa to marry him!”

He cried. Bastien froze and bowed his head.

Bastien: “No, because your friend has passed and you want to grieve.”

Tristan: “Thank you.”

He wiped his eyes. Bastien put his arms around his older brother. Tristan’s eyes widened, and he hugged Bastien back.

Bastien: “I want to let you know I am here for you.”

He whispered. Tristan closed his eyes.

Tristan: “Thank you.”

Tristan stood up and reached for his black suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. He slid his arms into the sleeves, pulling the fabric over his shoulders before smoothing out the lapels. He checked his reflection one last time, ensuring the fit was perfect, before he buttoned it up.

Tristan: “I’ll be back later.”

Bastien nodded.

Bastien: “I’ll make chicken fettuccine alfredo for you with some fresh rolls and a salad.”

He stated, knowing it was Tristan’s favorite meal.

Bastien: “And I’ll get a bottle of chardonnay from the wine cellar.”

He said gently. Tristan offered a slight smile.

Tristan: “I appreciate that, Bastien.”

Exiting his bedroom, he walked across the pedway and down the stairs, then passed through the living room and kitchen until he arrived at the mudroom. He slid his sheer socked feet into his black wingtip Oxfords and knelt to tie them.

After lacing up his shoes, Tristan stood and approached his Toyota MR2 Convertible, sliding into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, the engine coming to life with a quiet hum. Reaching up, he pressed the button on the visor to open the garage door, and as it began to lift, he shifted the car into reverse and carefully backed out onto the driveway.

With the car positioned on the driveway, he shifted into first gear and eased his foot off the clutch. His car moved forward, rolling down the driveway and merging onto the road.

~

Tristan pulled his Toyota MR2 into the parking lot adjacent to the local park, the tires crunching softly on the gravel. He switched off the ignition, the quiet hum of the engine fading into the somber atmosphere of the afternoon. After a moment of silence to compose himself, he stepped out of the vehicle and straightened his black suit jacket. Closing the door with a firm click, he began the walk toward the grassy clearing where the outdoor funeral service for Sylvia was being held.

Tristan approached Fabien and Celeste, standing near the edge of the crowd. Nearby, Jordi stood with his head bowed, looking exhausted. He wore a black Italian-cut suit, a dark gray turtleneck, and black loafers. Tristan made his way toward them, offering a solemn nod to each.

Tristan: “Fabien. Celeste.”

He murmured, his voice low and steady despite the grief tightening his chest. They acknowledged him with somber expressions. Tristan then turned to Jordi, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Tristan: “Jordi. I’m so sorry.”

Jordi looked up, his eyes rimmed with red, and offered a brief, tight-lipped nod.

Tristan: “Is Ashley here?”

Jordi shook his head.

Jordi: “They couldn’t come.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

Jordi: “They feel it’s their fault this happened.”

He embraced himself.

Jordi: “I asked them why they didn’t go with Blair, and I feel if they did, this could have been prevented.”

He said with strain, feeling the guilt weigh on himself for his poor choice of words. Tristan placed his hand on his shoulder.

Tristan: “Jordi, there could have been so many things to come out of this. Hindsight is an excellent thing, but what if they went with Blair and something worse happened?”

He asked grimly. Jordi looked away and squeezed his eyes shut.

Tristan: “Do you trust Blair would do the right thing and get them to safety?”

He asked as he knitted his eyebrows. Fabien snorted.

Fabien: “Knowing Blair, no.”

Tristan: “Jordi, it’s no one’s fault but the man who pulled the trigger and turned Sylvia into a richonoid.”

He said resolutely.

Fabien: “Jiro said she died for a dumb reason.”

He laughed a bit. Jordi’s jaw tightened. He was glad Jaxon wasn’t here, or he would have punched him for saying that. Tristan folded his arms over and heaved a sigh. It’s one of those days, isn’t it? He pondered.

Tristan: “That’s totally subjective. None of us think highly of Blair, but she did, and she felt it was her duty to protect him, even if he didn’t appreciate it and we know he doesn’t give a damn.”

He said with a twinge of annoyance.

Tristan: “We’re here to give Sylvia the dignity she actually earned, not to dissect the stupidity of Blair Donati or anyone else. Regardless of why she did it, she acted with conviction. Most people go their whole lives without having a single conviction that costs them anything. Sylvia stood by hers until the end. We owe it to her—and to ourselves—to be better. She didn’t sacrifice herself for a ‘dumb reason’ in her eyes, and that’s the only perspective that matters today. So let’s keep our focus where it belongs, right there at the front.”

He said firmly.

The gravity of the occasion hung over them all like a physical weight as they turned their attention back toward the service, ready to say their final goodbyes.

Under the shade of a wide pavilion near the center of the park, rows of dark wooden chairs had been arranged on the grass. A framed portrait of Sylvia sat beside a polished mahogany casket, draped in white orchids. In the photograph, her round face, dark auburn hair, and thick-framed glasses captured that familiar, reserved expression her inner circle knew so well: quiet, watchful, and intensely observant. Underneath the portrait was a golden plaque that read, “Dr. Sylvia Hughes, 1948 - 1987.”

The crowd that had gathered reflected the complex, contrasting lives Sylvia had navigated, and on one side sat colleagues from the infosec world, dressed in dark suits, whispering in hushed tones about her brilliant programming logic and unmatched consulting intellect. Amongst them were Giorgos and Monica. Monica sat timidly, whereas Giorgos looked stern with his arms folded.

Demetrio Donati sat on the opposite side alongside Blair and Vanessa. Clad in a black American-cut suit paired with a white pressed shirt, a black tie, and black wholecut Oxfords, Demetrio exuded a quiet and formidable presence. Blair, conversely, was dressed in a blue pressed shirt, an ill-fitting black suit, a black tie, and black loafers. Vanessa wore a black bodycon dress with puffy sleeves and black heels. Rather than acting out of mere obligation, Demetrio stood guard out of a profound and genuine reverence for a woman whose fierce, unwavering loyalty had always been extended to him.

Tristan, Fabien, and Celeste took their seats, and Jordi approached Demetrio. Demetrio’s rheumy eyes gazed at the younger man. Blair bore his glare on Jordi.

Jordi: “Hey, Demetrio, I am so sorry.”

He hugged him.

Blair: “Get out of here, you fat pig!”

He hissed. Jordi shot him a glare, and Demetrio gave him a disapproving look.

Professor Stewart Murphy approached Demetrio. He wore a black sweater over a white pressed shirt and a black tie, black pants, and black wholecut Oxfords.

Prof. Murphy: “Demetrio, I am so sorry…”

He shook his hand.

Blair: “Get this fatass out of here!”

He commanded. Professor Murphy pursed his lips and cleared his throat. Jordi’s jaw tightened, wanting nothing more than to punch Blair’s face in.

Jordi sat by Demetrio. Blair gaped at him.

Blair: “Sit back away from me! I can’t breathe! Ugh, your cologne stinks and YOU’RE FAT!”

He bellowed. Jordi’s right eye twitched, and he clenched his fists tightly. Demetrio turned to Blair.

Demetrio: “Blair, sit down!”

He whispered hoarsely.

Stewart made his way to where Tristan, Fabien, and Celeste sat, drinking both Tristan and Fabien in.

Prof. Murphy: “Hello, young lady and two fine gentlemen!”

He smiled. Fabien smiled back and waved.

Tristan: “Hello, Stewart.”

Stewart inhaled the sweet cologne from both Fabien and Tristan.

As the quiet service began, a brass quintet set up under a nearby oak tree and softly began to play. Rather than traditional funeral dirges, the low, rich notes of mid-century Big Band music floated across the lawn—a subtle nod to Sylvia’s specific, uncompromising tastes. The warm tones of the horns softened the sharp edge of the afternoon, giving the memorial a dignified, reflective tempo.

The stage was a modest, raised platform constructed of dark, reclaimed timber, its surface neatly carpeted in a deep charcoal fabric that muffled the sound of footsteps. At its center stood a heavy brass microphone stand, gleaming dully under the pavilion’s shade.

The celebrant, a man in his fifties with a distinguished gray beard, approached the platform with deliberate, calm steps. He climbed the short flight of stairs and took his place behind the podium, adjusting the microphone with a practiced hand while slowly surveying the gathered attendees with a somber, steady gaze.

Celebrant: “Dr. Sylvia Hughes was never one for empty applause. But she was, above all, a person who knew the value of gathering the people who mattered. On behalf of the Donati family and her closest friends, I want to welcome each of you here today. Whether you worked alongside her, learned from her, or were lucky enough to be part of her inner circle, your presence is a testament to the life she led and the impact she had on all of us.”

He began, his voice steady over the soft rustle of the wind.

Celebrant: “She was a person of immense intellect, but even greater humility. She could negotiate historic transactions across international borders in five different tongues. Yet, she was happiest in a quiet room, working through a complex line of code, enjoying a fine glass of wine, raving about trains, or looking after the safety of the people she cared about most. She was stubborn, direct, and fiercely protective. At thirty-nine, she lived with a depth and purpose that few achieve in a century.”

He continued.

Celebrant: “She didn't seek the spotlight, and she rarely accepted praise, preferring instead to know that a system was secure or a friend was safe. To those of you who knew her, she was a quiet bedrock. We are all poorer for her absence today, but we are undeniably richer for the time we shared with her. As we remember her, let us carry forward not just our grief, but the unwavering integrity she demanded of herself and expected from all of us. She lived without compromise, and that is how we will remember her—uncompromising, brilliant, and deeply loved.”

The celebrant paused, his gaze softening as he looked out over the assembly.

Celebrant: “Sylvia was a woman of many facets, and to truly understand her, one must hear the stories of those who walked alongside her. At this time, I would like to invite a few of her closest friends to come forward and share some of their memories with us.”

Demetrio turned to where Sylvia always sat beside him, offering him a shoulder to cry on, giving him advice, reassuring him, but she was not there to do that. A crushing void now resided where her steady presence used to be, a silence more deafening than any roar. She had been his anchor in the treacherous currents of his life, the one soul who truly understood the weight he carried. He looked to Jordi, who was seated beside him. He glanced at Demetrio and smiled a bit, and patted his shoulder. A sudden warmth filled Demetrio’s heart seeing Jordi by his side, consoling him, and offering him support. He inhaled sharply, glad to have someone with him.

Blair flicked his gaze to Jordi and gnashed his teeth. Why is that fat loser still here and not with his dumb friends?! He thought angrily. He looked around, hoping to see Ashley, but they were not here. I guess they feel bad Sylvia died, he thought. Well, if they wanna make it up to her, they can date me, he thought with a grin.

Giorgos took a steadying breath, his jaw set in a rigid line as he stood from his chair. He adjusted his suit jacket, smoothed the lapels, and walked toward the small platform. His gait was methodical, every step deliberate. As he mounted the stairs, the fabric of his trousers caught the light, sharp and precise. He reached the podium and gripped the sides before he leveled his gaze at the attendees.

He cleared his throat, the sound stark and resonant against the outdoor setting.

Giorgos: “I first met Sylvia when my family and I emigrated here from Hallas in 1966. She was a teenager then. During one of my archaeological digs, I found the first coin ever spent in the Reonan civilization, and she recommended I sell the coin to the museum, which is how I found my wealth. If it were not for her guidance, my sons would have to join the military to make ends meet because, as you can see, neither Deimos nor Lazaros is here to pay respects to the woman who made it possible for them to laze around, mope, and get the place to reek of their rancid feet.”

He said bitterly. Fabien snorted. Tristan heaved a deep sigh, shaking his head.

Giorgos: “Sylvia, if you’re watching this, thank you for allowing Deimos and Lazaros to do absolutely nothing with their lives and thank you for making it possible to give my late wife all the trips and gifts possible only for her to mope until she died!”

He threw his arms up. Fabien chuckled to himself. Wow, he thought.

Monica embraced herself and knit her eyebrows, staring at Giorgos with disappointment.

Giorgos released his grip on the podium and descended the stairs with a stiff, rigid stride. He walked back through the rows of chairs, ignoring the varied expressions of the attendees, until he reached the seat beside Monica. He sat down heavily, crossing his arms and fixing his gaze on the casket, his jaw still tight with irritation.

Monica: “Did you have to deliver such a hateful speech?!”

She whispered. Giorgos drew a long breath.

Giorgos: “Well, they say to let it out, so I did!”

He threw his arms up.

Blair stood up and skipped on the stage, almost tripping over the carpet. Fabien snorted and shook his head. There is always fun in a funeral with the clown, he thought.

Blair: “Well, you don’t realize someone is gone until you can’t find your socks. This is why I have mismatched socks, see?”

Pulling up his pant legs, he revealed a mismatched pair—one sock white, the other black. Demetrio shook his head in disapproval, as a wave of uneasy laughter rippled through the onlookers. Jordi’s gaze locked onto Blair, burning with intense anger.

Blair: “Sylvia found my socks for me. She also picked out the canned ravioli for me and made it in the microwave at the right temperature.”

Celeste shifted uncomfortably, while Tristan tightly pursed his lips. Beside them, Fabien clapped a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle his laughter.

Blair: “Well, Sylvia died protecting my sweetheart, Ashley, and me.”

He began. Jordi flicked his fiery, byzantine eyes up at Blair.

Blair: “She believed in Ashley and me and died for a good cause. If Ashley feels bad, they can grant her dying wishes and date me! Her last words were for Ashley and me to date!”

He chirped. Demetrio cried into his hands. Tristan sighed and felt the second-hand embarrassment. Jordi angrily rose and marched up to Blair on the stage.

Jordi: “Off the stage. Now.”

He said firmly. Blair glared at him.

Blair: “WHY?! You broke up with Ashley! They want to be with me!”

Jordi glared at him with hot tears burning behind his eyes.

Jordi: “She died protecting you, and you’re making this about your selfish self and your demands! She didn’t believe in you and Ashley! She wanted to SAVE Ashley, and you did not! Stewart had to come to get you and Ashley out of there because you wouldn’t!”

He barked.

Blair: “No, FATSO! It’s because Ashley wouldn’t go with me! It’s their fault she died, and if they wanna make amends to her, they should date me!”

He fired back. Jordi clenched both of his fists, ready to punch him across his face.

Demetrio angrily rose.

Demetrio: “Blair, get off the stage! You said enough!”

He said firmly. Blair turned to his grandfather, his mouth ajar.

Jordi: “Get off the stage. Stop making everything about you. Show some gratitude for someone who sacrificed herself so you could be here arguing with me about NOTHING.”

He snapped, on the verge of tears.

Jordi: “In your speech, you never mentioned ANYTHING about her as a person!”

He said as he slashed his hand through the air.

Jordi: “It’s always about what she could do for YOU! That’s all anyone ever is to you, Blair! People are nothing more to you than how they can serve you and what they can do for you!”

He shouted.

Jordi: “She was with your grandparents from the time you were born! The celebrant gave a better speech for her, and he doesn’t know her well! TRISTAN delivered a moving speech when he was speaking to Fabien, Celeste, and me, and he didn’t know her nearly as long as you and she didn’t do nearly as much for him as she did for you and your family!”

He snapped through hot tears.

Blair: “Yeah, well, Tristan is a loser like you, Jordi!”

He laughed.

Tristan rolled his eyes. Ah, the finest example of intelligent life on this planet, he thought dryly. Fabien snorted and shook his head. Best clapback, Blair, he thought.

Demetrio: “Get off the stage now, Blair.”

He thundered. Blair looked at his grandfather and then at Jordi. He huffed and angrily marched off the stage and slammed his body down in the chair, folding his arms and pouting.

Jordi took a long, steadying breath, his fingers tracing the edge of his suit jacket as he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes. His presence shifted the air from one of conflict to one of solemn reverence. He stood for a moment in silence, looking out at everyone. He locked his gaze on Demetrio and then back at Tristan, who gave him a gentle nod.

He took a deep breath.

Jordi: “Sylvia was the kind of person who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. Her strength was quiet, built on a foundation of absolute integrity and a profound understanding of what it meant to care for others. She was an anchor for so many of us, a steady hand in the middle of whatever storm we were facing. She understood the weight of responsibility better than anyone I’ve ever known, and she carried it with a grace that never faltered.”

He stated.

Jordi: “Sylvia didn’t just look after systems or logic; she looked after people. She saw the value in people, even when they couldn’t see it in themselves, and she protected that value with everything she had. We are here to honor a woman who lived with conviction and loved with a fierce, silent loyalty. Her memory is a reminder of the best of us, and though her absence is a heavy burden, the lessons she taught us about courage and selflessness will remain our guiding light. Rest in peace, Sylvia. You were, and always will be, truly remarkable.”

Upon concluding his remarks, Jordi looked toward Demetrio. A single tear rolled down the older man’s cheek as a faint, bittersweet smile appeared on his face for the first time in ages. He was deeply moved that Jordi truly understood the essence of who Sylvia was.

A respectful silence settled over the pavilion, heavy with the weight of Jordi’s words. Tristan nodded slowly, acknowledging the grace Jordi had restored to the service, his own grief tempered by a sense of peace. Beside him, Fabien and Celeste exchanged a solemn look, the earlier absurdity of the morning fading into the background as the reality of Sylvia’s impact took center stage. Deeply moved by Jordi’s speech, Stewart nodded in agreement.

Even Giorgos, who had moments before been stewing in bitterness, seemed to deflate slightly, his arms uncrossing as he looked toward the casket with a flicker of begrudging recognition.

Blair, however, remained slumped in his chair, his lower lip protruding in a pout, still unable to grasp the gravity of the tribute or the quiet dignity Jordi had just offered. He looked at his grandfather and glared. What does that FAT LOSER have that I don’t?! He wondered.

Jordi sat by Demetrio. Demetrio gazed at Jordi for a while and took a deep breath.

The celebrant returned to the podium, offering a warm and appreciative smile to the attendees. Celebrant: “Thank you all for joining us today to honor Sylvia’s memory.”

He stated, his voice carrying clearly through the pavilion.

Celebrant: “Your presence has meant a great deal. Before we conclude, I would like to announce that a spread of food, kindly prepared by Ashley Solegatti, is available for everyone to enjoy in another pavilion. Please help yourselves and take this time to share more stories of the remarkable woman we’ve lost.”

As the service concluded, a soft rustle filled the air as the attendees rose from their seats, their voices a low murmur of quiet reflections and shared condolences. Moving with a somber grace, the crowd began to drift across the grassy clearing, walking together toward the other pavilion to find the spread prepared by Ashley.

The food was set up on long buffet tables that groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with artisanal sandwiches, tiered displays of colorful petit fours, and vast bowls of vibrant summer salads, creating a scene of overwhelming abundance and variety. The main course amongst the food was Cajun meatloaf, one of Sylvia’s favorite meals.

Demetrio approached Jordi and pulled him into a hug. Blair glared at him with a fiery rage.

Blair: “This food all sucks! This is why you and Ashley are FAT!”

He snapped, folding his arms over his chest. Fabien laughed at Blair.

Demetrio turned to Jordi, his voice cracking with emotion.

Demetrio: “Jordi, you are a truly remarkable young man. I can’t express enough how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for our family.”

Blair huffed, cutting in bitterly.

Blair: “He didn’t do anything except steal Ashley away from me!”

Choosing to ignore Blair, Jordi offered Demetrio a warm smile.

Jordi: “It’s truly my pleasure, Demetrio. You supported me so much when I was in need, so returning the favor is the absolute least I can do.”

Blair snapped again, causing Jordi’s jaw to tighten in frustration.

Blair: “You just stole our food, you fatty!”

Demetrio placed a reassuring hand on Jordi’s shoulder, silently studying him as he searched for the proper words. Jordi looked back at him expectantly.

Jordi: “Yes?”

Demetrio spoke softly, beginning to share a piece of news.

Demetrio: “Jordi… your words today and your actions have touched me deeply. Sylvia served primarily as my personal assistant, while Pixelsun Securities was merely a secondary venture she pursued. She recently let me know that she has officially sold the company to Etsuko Hashimoto.”

He stated. Jordi nodded.

Demetrio: “She did before… her passing.”

He pursed his lips.

Demetrio: “Jordi Vaquero, I want you to become my new assistant.”

He declared. Jordi raised his eyebrows, at a loss for words. Upon hearing those words, Blair’s jaw dropped, and he wanted to scream.

Blair: “Grandpa, NO! NO! HE CAN’T BE YOUR ASSISTANT ‘CAUSE HE’S WORKING!”

He caterwauled. Jordi turned to Blair and sneered at him.

Jordi: “Blair, shut up, go home, and snivel about it! I am DONE talking to you and hearing your tantrums!”

He hissed. Blair glared at Jordi with tears in his eyes.

Blair: “SCREW YOU, YOU FAT COW!”

He shoved Jordi and ran down the park, crying his eyes out.

Fabien slapped his knees as he laughed. Celeste sighed.

Celeste: “He’s so distraught about Sylvia.”

She said dryly. Demetrio sighed and nodded.

Demetrio: “It’s been a rough time for Blair.”

Jordi inhaled sharply.

Fabien helped himself to a heaping plate of Cajun meatloaf and began eating it. Celeste piled up her plate with petit fours and dumped them into her mouth.

Demetrio: “So Jordi, do you want the position?”

He turned to Demetrio. This would mean his days of working for Minerva are over. He doesn’t have to enter Megalos Tower anymore. No more saccharine smiles from Alfie or mundane small talk from him. No more having to kidnap people for Minerva or being tickled by her when he fails to do his tasks, no more running into Craig and hearing his cheesy pick-up lines, and no more arguing with Vasilos Megalos.

Jordi: “Yes, Demetrio, I would love the position! Thank you!”

With a tender smile, Demetrio pulled Jordi into a warm embrace. Jordi hugged him back, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders.

~

Blair stormed into his bedroom, kicked his Locking Logs set over. Fueled by a volatile cocktail of jealousy and wounded pride, he lunged for his shelf, grabbing his prized plastic action figures and snapping their limbs with sharp, deliberate cracks that echoed in the silence of the room.

He swept a container of building blocks off his desk with a violent swipe of his arm, watching them skitter across the floor like colorful shrapnel. Every toy he touched became a target for his fury; he ripped the seams of a stuffed clown until the synthetic stuffing erupted, and he repeatedly stomped on his remote-controlled car until the plastic casing splintered under his heel. He grabbed his Nintendo console and smashed it repeatedly against the floor until the plastic casing cracked and the internal components spilled out.

His breath came in ragged, angry gasps as he surveyed the carnage of his own collection, his face flushed and distorted with a tantrum that felt as hollow as the broken plastic surrounding him. Blair sank to the floor and threw his head back as he screamed and bawled loudly.