The scent of turpentine still lingered faintly in the room, mixing with dust and silence. I stood silent in a room with many colours. A room more colourful than the sky. A room filled with beautiful artwork of a beautiful, vibrant man, yet it felt so dark. Finished portraits rested comfortably on the walls. Paint brushes were well arranged on the table. Then I saw it. An unfinished painting. It was an oil painting of me, my younger self. My left eye was still missing. I hadn't cried since I heard the news of my father's passing. I was still in shock. I felt quite numb. My father was all I ever had. My mother died immediately after having me.
As a child, I played in this room with my father. He would teach me different painting techniques and the art of feeling inspired to paint without ever losing interest. As I stood there, reminiscing about my childhood with my father, I felt it: tears. It finally dawned on me. My father was gone forever.
Then came the sound of the gates. The slow creak caught my attention as it was being lifted. Then followed the sound of muffled voices and laughter, too careful to be considered real. They had arrived: friends, family, people who would fill the house with small talk and condolences.
I stayed still. The footsteps on gravel grew louder. I couldn't bring myself to leave the painting room just yet. Out there he was gone, but in here, with the unfinished strokes and scattered brushes, he still felt near.
I traced my fingers along the edge of the half-finished painting, and for a moment I could almost hear my father humming as he painted.
I turned my attention to the door as I heard a knock.
"Lyra, everyone is waiting for you downstairs," my aunt said with a concerned look.
I nodded and wiped my tears off my face. Together, we went to the main living room.
As I walked down from the right side of the double staircase, I looked around and, for the first time, noticed how large the estate was. It used to feel like home. Now, it felt just like a large house.
"Oh, my poor baby. Everything will be fine. You need to be strong," my uncle cried.
"Thanks, Uncle Todd. I'll be fine," I said, faking a smile and wiping my face once again.
Pitiful eyes surrounded me. I knew they meant no harm, but I didn't like it. It made me feel small and vulnerable.
Before my father's death, I was seen as a fierce and courageous woman. Now, I was just a twenty-three-year-old 'baby'.
My aunt called one of the servers to hand me a cold drink for the hot afternoon. Everyone sat waiting. It felt like they were waiting for the arrival of someone.
"Are we waiting for someone?" I asked.
"The lawyer should be on his way now," my aunt said.
I had totally forgotten about the lawyer coming over. Since my dad was dead and had been buried, the next step was to know what he had in his will.
Even though I was a responsible young lady, I wasn't ready to take up the responsibility of owning everything my father had and running his businesses. Especially his businesses.
Before he died, he was already having issues with some of his companies. I really didn't want to get involved. My father never wanted me involved either. He never spoke much of his business. I barely knew what he did, or exactly how. I was aware he was into construction and had a degree in surgical engineering. That was it. That was all I knew. I had never even met my father's lawyer.
Everyone turned their heads to the sound of a car pulling in.
"It must be the lawyer," I said, trying to make small conversation.
"It indeed is," a distant relative mentioned.
A tall blonde man with shining blue eyes stepped in, with a man behind him holding a black suitcase. The family welcomed him with big smiles and greetings. He just stood there, silent. After what seemed like a minute of him contemplating whether he should even acknowledge us, he nodded. A slight nod.
"Who does he think he is?" I whispered to myself.
I stared in his direction, expecting... anything... something. Even if it was just a word. Courtesy demanded a response to greetings. I had just met him, and I already didn't like him. He seemed extremely arrogant. As I stared, I noticed he looked quite familiar. I might have actually met him.
Whispers of gossip echoed through the room.
"This is Mr Silas Dorne, late Mr Ainsley's lawyer," the man with the suitcase said. "I'm his assistant," he added.
"We've heard of him," murmured a few relatives.
Both men decided to take their seats.
"Without taking too much of your time, here's the will of the late Mr Ainsley," the assistant said, reaching into his suitcase and bringing out what my father had willed before his passing.
The file was passed around until it landed in my hand. I read through the papers and was in utter shock and disbelief. My eyebrows furrowed, almost touching. I stood up in shock.
"Marriage to Silas Dorne? My father wants me to marry his lawyer?"
"This is very confusing. But one thing I know for certain is that your father would never mean any harm towards you. He had always wanted the best. So if that's what he willed, in order for you to be his rightful heir, then that is what you should do," my aunt Lydia said.
I turned my attention away from the papers to look at Mr Silas. He looked unreadable and expressionless. The assistant looked uncomfortable, like he knew more than he could say. Suddenly, Silas Dorne turned his gaze to his assistant, and immediately the assistant stood up and announced their departure.
As the two men left, I finally analysed my environment. It was filled with angry people. I hadn't noticed because, to my bewilderment, I was focused elsewhere.
Whispers flew.
"So we get absolutely nothing."
"He only ever favoured his daughter."
I could sense even my favourite aunt Lydia wasn't happy. "This is ridiculous," she whispered.
Less than a minute after the lawyer and his assistant left, other relatives announced their departure. Some didn't even bother announcing that they were leaving. They just left abruptly.
I could sense they weren't happy with me getting everything my father had worked for. It was my father, after all. Who else deserved to inherit his hard work if not his child?
Within minutes, everyone had left. I was all alone in a twelve-bedroom house with no close family, just my servants.
"Silas Dorne," I whispered. The name alone made my stomach turn.
He seemed too familiar for me to have just met him. I paced around the house, in deep thought, trying to recall where I had seen this man.
After hundreds of footsteps around the house, I could finally remember him. When I was eight years old, I remembered coming back from school and seeing my father having a conversation with a man dressed in all black. It was him. It was Silas. But he looked slightly older then. He looked like he was in his early twenties then. Now I'm guessing he would be in his mid-thirties.
"But does my father want me to marry this man?" I thought out loud.
I sat alone in my forty-five-square-metre bedroom, still crying about the loss of my father. A room filled with things I loved now felt like an empty event hall yet to be decorated for a wedding.
I went downstairs to the maid's chambers; I gathered all the estate workers and told them to leave. I needed and wanted to be alone.
After that, I decided to go to my father's painting room again. There, I cried even more until I fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke up to the sunlight spilling through the soft curtains, painting the floor in soft gold. I almost forgot where I was until I turned and saw the portraits leaning against the wall and the unfinished painting too. I had fallen asleep on the bare floor. I quickly stood up. I took a very long, cold shower and changed out of my black dress.
"I shouldn't wear something black," I whispered to myself. I felt like I needed it. I wore a bright pink gown. I even tried to go on with my day like nothing serious had happened.
This was my first time dealing with grief. I didn't know how to deal with it. My mother had died, but I had never met her. Ignoring my pain felt like a brilliant idea.
I stood at my balcony, watching the view of all I'd been left alone with: the cars and the entire building.
As I looked around, my eyes went to some security men still watching over the estate. There were nine of them.
"What are you guys still doing here?" I yelled out to them. "I thought I asked you all to leave."
One of the men walked further in my direction.
"Good morning, Ms Ainsley. We were instructed by your father to keep you safe until you moved out," he explained.
"Moving out?" I whispered to myself. Without saying a word, I went back to my bedroom to take a thirty-minute nap.
I woke up and decided to take my morning coffee. "Gilbert!" I called out the name of the estate kitchen worker. Then I remembered I had already asked every worker to leave. I needed to do everything myself now. I grew up with everything being done for me. It felt like a huge switch doing it myself.
It took a long time to find where everything was in the kitchen. After tens of minutes, I finally did. My coffee was ready.
As I sipped my coffee, everything from yesterday came rushing back: the will, the room full of whispering relatives, my marriage, the man who didn't speak but left the loudest silence I'd ever heard.
Tears fell down my eyes, and before they could drop down my cheeks, I heard a knock that made me flinch. I spilled my coffee. I froze for a second. My heart hoped it was my father. But hope is a cruel thing. It being my father was extremely impossible.
I opened the door to see the same man who had stood behind Silas yesterday.
"Miss Ainsley," he greeted softly with a smile, bowing his head slightly. "I apologise for arriving unannounced."
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted anyone inside my empty house. But his voice was calm and his smile felt genuine.
"It's fine," I said finally, stepping aside. "Please, come in."