No flowers for the dead - Chapter 44: Chapter 44
You are reading No flowers for the dead, Chapter 44: Chapter 44. Read more chapters of No flowers for the dead.
They didn’t start in a boardroom.
They started at the kitchen table.
The same scarred surface that had held their first conversation as three, not two. The same table that had fed silence and memory. The same place where Elias’s presence still lingered—faint, warm, unspoken.
Elara laid out paper, pens, her old journal.
Rae brought her laptop, playlists, coffee.
Together, they began.
Not a business plan.
A blueprint for a future they could believe in.
⸻
“No more faceless investments,” Rae said, crossing out a column on the company’s portfolio summary. “No more luxury just for luxury’s sake.”
Elara nodded. “We redirect profits into community grants. Real ones. Not PR campaigns.”
Rae tapped her finger against the screen. “And we give names. Faces. Accountability. The people behind the numbers deserve to be known.”
Elara smiled. “Dad would hate that.”
“He’d fight it first,” Rae agreed. “Then he’d pretend it was his idea all along.”
They both laughed—softly, a little sadly. But the grief that sat between them now felt lighter. Like a stone worn smooth by shared hands.
⸻
They called the project Verdant.
A name Elias once used for a secret account only Alina had known about—intended for a life he’d never gotten to live. A house in Tuscany. A school in Morocco. A garden somewhere with real trees.
“Verdant,” Elara whispered, writing it at the top of the page, “means growing. Even after death.”
Rae ran her finger under the word. “Perfect.”
It would be a foundation. A venture. A rebellion.
Something living.
Something Elias wouldn’t have dared to build—because it required tenderness.
⸻
Alina joined them that night, placing mugs of tea at their elbows and leaning against the doorway, arms folded, watching them in silence.
“They’ll try to stop you,” she said. “The old men. The loyalists. The ones who still think legacy should be inherited, not transformed.”
“We know,” Rae said.
“But we’re not afraid,” Elara added.
Alina smiled. “Good.”
She paused. Then: “Neither was he. Not when it mattered.”
⸻
And so they built.
Not empires.
But roots.
Through charity. Through storytelling. Through presence. They started appearing where Elias had once stayed distant. Schools. Hospitals. Community centers. Places that never made headlines.
They answered emails.
They listened.
They showed up.
And slowly, the world began to see not just Elias’s daughters—but two women shaping something entirely their own.
Not as heirs.
But as authors.
They started at the kitchen table.
The same scarred surface that had held their first conversation as three, not two. The same table that had fed silence and memory. The same place where Elias’s presence still lingered—faint, warm, unspoken.
Elara laid out paper, pens, her old journal.
Rae brought her laptop, playlists, coffee.
Together, they began.
Not a business plan.
A blueprint for a future they could believe in.
⸻
“No more faceless investments,” Rae said, crossing out a column on the company’s portfolio summary. “No more luxury just for luxury’s sake.”
Elara nodded. “We redirect profits into community grants. Real ones. Not PR campaigns.”
Rae tapped her finger against the screen. “And we give names. Faces. Accountability. The people behind the numbers deserve to be known.”
Elara smiled. “Dad would hate that.”
“He’d fight it first,” Rae agreed. “Then he’d pretend it was his idea all along.”
They both laughed—softly, a little sadly. But the grief that sat between them now felt lighter. Like a stone worn smooth by shared hands.
⸻
They called the project Verdant.
A name Elias once used for a secret account only Alina had known about—intended for a life he’d never gotten to live. A house in Tuscany. A school in Morocco. A garden somewhere with real trees.
“Verdant,” Elara whispered, writing it at the top of the page, “means growing. Even after death.”
Rae ran her finger under the word. “Perfect.”
It would be a foundation. A venture. A rebellion.
Something living.
Something Elias wouldn’t have dared to build—because it required tenderness.
⸻
Alina joined them that night, placing mugs of tea at their elbows and leaning against the doorway, arms folded, watching them in silence.
“They’ll try to stop you,” she said. “The old men. The loyalists. The ones who still think legacy should be inherited, not transformed.”
“We know,” Rae said.
“But we’re not afraid,” Elara added.
Alina smiled. “Good.”
She paused. Then: “Neither was he. Not when it mattered.”
⸻
And so they built.
Not empires.
But roots.
Through charity. Through storytelling. Through presence. They started appearing where Elias had once stayed distant. Schools. Hospitals. Community centers. Places that never made headlines.
They answered emails.
They listened.
They showed up.
And slowly, the world began to see not just Elias’s daughters—but two women shaping something entirely their own.
Not as heirs.
But as authors.
End of No flowers for the dead Chapter 44. Continue reading Chapter 45 or return to No flowers for the dead book page.