No flowers for the dead - Chapter 53: Chapter 53
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Rae found the envelope waiting in her suite at the Ritz, handwritten and sealed with Alina’s wax mark.
She hadn’t seen that mark in years—a delicate pressed flower, dried and fragile, trapped under translucent paper.
It felt like a relic from another lifetime.
She opened it carefully.
“They want to turn the memoir into a series,” Alina had written.
“I haven’t said yes. I won’t unless we all agree: it’s our story, or it’s no story at all.”
Rae read it twice before forwarding a photo of the letter to Elara.
No context. No caption.
Elara responded within two minutes.
“Come to the house.”
⸻
By nightfall, they were seated together in the drawing room of Elias’s old estate—now Rae’s.
Elara paced with a glass of wine, bare feet against marble. Rae sat curled on the couch, letter open in her lap, the fire crackling between them.
“I should’ve expected this,” Elara said.
Rae raised a brow. “That someone would want to turn our grief into a limited series? Or that Alina would hesitate?”
“Both.”
They fell into silence for a moment, not tense—just full.
Finally, Rae spoke.
“I don’t want them to own him. Not like that.”
Elara looked over. “Own him, or own us?”
Rae didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
⸻
“I don’t want someone casting a pretty actress to cry in a hallway while the camera pans to Elias’s cufflinks,” Rae muttered. “I don’t want them turning the truth into mood lighting.”
Elara sipped her wine. “So what do we do?”
“We say yes—but only if we control it. Writers. Directors. Every inch. Or we walk.”
Elara sat beside her. “Do you really want to go back into all that again? The press? The criticism?”
“I didn’t fight to live through it just to let someone else narrate it.”
That stopped Elara cold.
Because it wasn’t about control.
It was about dignity.
⸻
Later that week, all three women joined a call with the studio executive.
“We have conditions,” Rae said.
Elara continued, “No composite characters. No softening Elias. No demonizing him either.”
“And no one gets to narrate from his perspective,” Alina finished. “This isn’t his show.”
There was a long silence.
And then the executive laughed—surprised, maybe a little nervous.
“You three are fierce,” he said.
Rae smiled. “You’re just meeting us now. We’ve always been.”
She hadn’t seen that mark in years—a delicate pressed flower, dried and fragile, trapped under translucent paper.
It felt like a relic from another lifetime.
She opened it carefully.
“They want to turn the memoir into a series,” Alina had written.
“I haven’t said yes. I won’t unless we all agree: it’s our story, or it’s no story at all.”
Rae read it twice before forwarding a photo of the letter to Elara.
No context. No caption.
Elara responded within two minutes.
“Come to the house.”
⸻
By nightfall, they were seated together in the drawing room of Elias’s old estate—now Rae’s.
Elara paced with a glass of wine, bare feet against marble. Rae sat curled on the couch, letter open in her lap, the fire crackling between them.
“I should’ve expected this,” Elara said.
Rae raised a brow. “That someone would want to turn our grief into a limited series? Or that Alina would hesitate?”
“Both.”
They fell into silence for a moment, not tense—just full.
Finally, Rae spoke.
“I don’t want them to own him. Not like that.”
Elara looked over. “Own him, or own us?”
Rae didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
⸻
“I don’t want someone casting a pretty actress to cry in a hallway while the camera pans to Elias’s cufflinks,” Rae muttered. “I don’t want them turning the truth into mood lighting.”
Elara sipped her wine. “So what do we do?”
“We say yes—but only if we control it. Writers. Directors. Every inch. Or we walk.”
Elara sat beside her. “Do you really want to go back into all that again? The press? The criticism?”
“I didn’t fight to live through it just to let someone else narrate it.”
That stopped Elara cold.
Because it wasn’t about control.
It was about dignity.
⸻
Later that week, all three women joined a call with the studio executive.
“We have conditions,” Rae said.
Elara continued, “No composite characters. No softening Elias. No demonizing him either.”
“And no one gets to narrate from his perspective,” Alina finished. “This isn’t his show.”
There was a long silence.
And then the executive laughed—surprised, maybe a little nervous.
“You three are fierce,” he said.
Rae smiled. “You’re just meeting us now. We’ve always been.”
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