"I can't believe Derrick passed on just like that," a woman who didn't look older than fifty said as she raised a crystal champagne flute to her lips and took a slow, deliberate sip.
She was sitting in a plush leather seat on a private aircraft, the kind that probably cost more than most people's houses. A built-in tray was attached to the armrest, polished wood gleaming under the soft cabin lights.
Contrary to her age, her skin had barely any wrinkles, stretched smooth and tight over high cheekbones. Her hair was tied neatly behind her head in an elegant bun, not a single strand out of place—clear evidence of the effort and money she put into taking care of herself. She wore a tailored black dress with a matching vest, the fabric expensive and perfectly fitted.
She had no visible excess fat anywhere on her frame, her figure maintained through what was likely rigorous discipline. Streaks of distinguished white hair wove through the darker strands across her head, adding to her prideful, untouchable allure.
"I know, Emily. The boy was brilliant as well," a man replied, his voice crackling slightly through the speakers of a flat screen that was mounted flush against the cabin wall.
He looked about the same age as the woman, maybe a bit older—it was hard to tell with men like him.
Years of stress from his high-powered job had taken their toll on him. Visible wrinkles creased his forehead like permanent worry lines, and deep grooves ran right under his eyes and along his nose, making him look perpetually exhausted.
He was writing something on papers scattered across his desk as they talked, barely glancing up at the camera.
He had a thick streak of white hair going along the side of his head, and the top of his hair was flipped back as if it had been plastered there with gel, exposing more of his wrinkled forehead.
"And our boy Philly, oh, how hurt he must be," Emily said softly as she rested her chin delicately on the rim of the glass, her other hand clasped over it. She stared out the window at the endless sea of clouds drifting past the aircraft.
"He was crying over the phone, Richard."
"I haven't heard him cry in the last fifteen years," she said, her voice cracking slightly, her expression twisting with pain.
"You have to understand, Emily, the two have been friends for the last six years, and we both know Derrick has been a very good friend to Philip."
"A phenomenal role model for Philip," Richard explained, finally looking up from his papers with a tired but sympathetic expression.
"Oh, I know that. And that is exactly why I think this will be really hard for Philip," Emily continued, her eyes never leaving the window as the clouds rushed past like ghosts. The sunlight streaming through cast shifting shadows across her face.
"I can't even remember the last time I've seen them apart for more than two days."
"Well, that's just how life is, Emily."
"People pass on, and all we can do is remember them and be thankful that they happened in our lives," Richard said in that practiced, consoling tone he probably used in board meetings.
"Oh, have a heart. People die and we grieve—that's only right," Emily shot back, her voice sharp now as she turned to glare at the screen.
"And do you even remember how Philly used to be before he met Derrick?" She leaned forward in her seat, her champagne flute gripped tighter.
"Though it pains me to say it, but he was arrogant. He was hateful, prideful, very, very distasteful, and talked down to everybody."
"Derrick is the greatest thing that has ever happened to our son," Emily stated firmly, her voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
The air hostess emerged from the back of the cabin, her heels clicking softly against the carpeted floor. She approached with practiced grace and informed Emily that they would be arriving in about four hours from now.
The Whitmore House, where Emily had departed from, was located in Manhattan, so it took about twelve to fourteen hours to reach Mayo Clinic in Tokyo, even on a private plane cutting through the sky at ridiculous speeds.
"Well, looking at you through this call, it seems like it didn't hurt you at all to say that," Richard chuckled, his shoulders shaking as he laughed at his own joke.
He couldn't help but crack even the most basic jokes at times like these—it was his way of coping.
"Oh, grow up," Emily told him off with a dismissive wave of her hand, but the corners of her mouth were already pulling up into a reluctant smile at his words.
The two of them smiled at each other through the screen like young lovers, like a teenage girl charmed by a boy's stupid joke.
Richard let out a long, heavy sigh and reached up to loosen his tie, tugging it down and unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. "But still, I get what you're saying. The boy was truly a mess before he met Derrick."
"He would talk back and live however he wanted and eat all sorts of things. At one point, he looked more like a cupcake than a cupcake itself," Richard joked, his eyes crinkling with the memory.
"Derrick's death is truly a loss for the Whitmore family."
"If it wasn't for the meeting I have today, I would accompany you as well. But as you know, I can't change my schedule as I please." His expression grew more serious, the weight of responsibility settling back onto his shoulders.
"But do tell Philip I will be attending the funeral," Richard reassured, his voice softer now, more genuine.
---
"Mr. Philip, over here!"
"Over here, Mr. Philip!"
"Is it true that Derrick Belmont passed away recently?"
"Has he been sick for a really long time now?"
Several news reporters were packed like sardines at the entrance of the Mayo Clinic, their bodies pressed together in a chaotic mass of cameras, microphones, and shouted questions.
Someone from the hospital staff had secretly tipped off the news as soon as Derrick passed away—probably got paid a nice chunk of change for it too.
Now they were swarming all over the entrance like vultures, making it damn near impossible for anyone to enter or exit easily. Camera flashes went off like strobe lights, momentarily blinding anyone who tried to push through.
The Whitmore family was one of the most influential families on the planet, so any news involving them would always make it to the front page of every financial and economic newspaper.
Whether it was about the company buying shares in some Fortune 500 company or something as trivial as going on a picnic—anything out of the ordinary was a scoop for the news reporters, a chance at a career-making story.
But the news reporters also had to be careful about what they wrote, like walking a tightrope.
They had the right to follow and publish about what they saw and what was true.
But in cases where they made up information or published a picture taken out of context, there was a massive difference between pissing off celebrities and pissing off people who held a percentage of a country's gross income.
Big news companies would go bankrupt overnight.
And no one would question why.
In this case, Derrick was already known as a close friend—if not the only friend—to the sole heir of the Whitmore family.
Reports of them traveling to different countries during vacation breaks had been published in the past few years, photos of them at beaches, theme parks, restaurants.
And with the news of his passing, news reporters came flocking to the source like moths to a flame, desperate to get the details, the exclusive, the money shot.
"Was Derrick Belmont assassinated?"
The questions were relentless, so was their complete ignorance of basic human decency. They all knew the man in front of them had just lost his friend, but none of them wanted to be the only station that fell behind in the news cycle.
"Get back! Get back! Mr. Philip will not be answering anything!" Lucas was standing directly in front of Philip, his arms spread wide as he physically pushed the reporters back as much as he could, his voice strained from shouting.
He was a thirty-year-old Italian man with sharp features and dark hair, a graduate from the prestigious Kingsley & Co. management program. He'd been appointed as the personal assistant to the Whitmore family's only heir, Philip Whitmore, three years ago.
There were also two other bodyguards—massive guys in black suits—pushing off reporters on both of Philip's sides, creating a human barrier that barely held against the tide.
"Philip, please don't do anything. We're almost out of here," Lucas whispered urgently over his shoulder, just loud enough for Philip to hear over the chaos.
"Just bear with me."
'Don't say anything. Don't think about anything,' Philip repeated in his head like a mantra, trying his absolute best to calm himself down. He kept his head down, staring at his shoes to hide his face from the cameras, slowly shuffling forward towards their car parked at the curb.
'Deep breath. Deeep breath.' He closed his eyes for a moment and was doing quite well in suppressing the tornado of emotions swirling inside him, keeping the lid on in front of the public eye.
With reddened, bloodshot eyes and a running nose he kept wiping with his sleeve, Philip was slowly descending the stairs towards his ride.
If he could just get inside his car, then he could get away from all of this madness.
A few more steps. That's all. Just a few more steps and he could achieve peace and grief in silence, away from these parasites.
"Is it true that you once assaulted Derrick Belmont's sister, Ava Belmont?" a reporter from somewhere in the back suddenly shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The question was totally out of context and completely unrelated to anything.
That's it.
That was the last straw.
One of the reporters wanted to get a reaction—any reaction, no matter what—and set out a risky bait, hoping to land the big catch.
Little did he know the fish was never afraid to take the bait.
Lucas closed his eyes in defeat, his shoulders sagging. He knew exactly what was about to follow. He'd seen this pattern before.
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up, all of you!!!"
Philip suddenly whipped his head up and shouted at the absolute top of his lungs, his voice echoing off the building walls and probably heard three blocks away.
"What the fuck is wrong with all of you, huh?"
The reporters all went dead silent, the sudden quiet almost deafening. But they sure as hell didn't put their microphones and cameras down—if anything, they leaned in closer, lenses zooming in on his face.
"I just lost my brother, my only friend!"
"If you could've just shut your corrupted mouths and even pretended to sympathize with me for five fucking seconds—"
"But nooo, you just had to show how much of a hypocritical, piece of shit, bottom-feeding scum you all are!" Philip shouted, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
Veins were popping out on his forehead and along his neck, pulsing visibly—clear signs of just how much pure hatred he felt for them in this moment.
"You want a headline? HUH? How about this?"
Philip let out a smile before continuing, but it was the most unpleasant, twisted smile anyone could display—the kind that didn't reach his eyes at all, the kind that promised consequences.
"The Whitmore Corporation did alllll it could to make sure a few pieces of shit, fucking lobotomized reporters were fired from their jobs and pulled—eeevery single string it could to make sure they were never—"
"Neverrrr employed again in any workplace!" He pointed around wildly as he said it, his finger jabbing at different reporters to make absolutely sure the threat was well received by everyone around him.
The reporters quickly fumbled with their cameras, lowering them with shaking hands. They slid their microphones down and desperately tried hiding the logos on their chest pockets, suddenly very interested in becoming anonymous.
Lucas could only shake his head slowly and rub his tired eyes. Those few sentences Philip just shouted had just added about forty hours of damage control to his already insane workload.
"Huh? What do you think? You all like that headline? No?"
Philip gestured dramatically with his hands spread wide, waiting for a reply like he was genuinely asking for their opinion. But of course, it never came.
The reporters had their heads tucked down now, eyes widened in genuine shock and fear, suddenly very aware that they might've just fucked with the wrong family.
"Now get the fuck away from me."
"Fuck!!!"
Philip cursed once more as he shoved his way through the passage that finally opened up between the reporters, his shoulder roughly bumping into a few of them.
The nearby reporters physically flinched and stumbled back as he passed, like he might explode again at any second.
They finally got inside the sleek black car, and Lucas slid into the driver's seat while Philip collapsed alone in the spacious back, the leather seats cool against his skin.
The bodyguards also climbed into separate cars positioned behind and in front of theirs, forming a protective convoy.
"I'm sorry, Lucas. I just couldn't—" Philip mumbled, his voice small now, all the fight drained out of him.
"You don't have to apologize. It's okay."
"In fact, you held up way better than I expected," Lucas said gently, glancing at Philip through the rearview mirror with genuine sympathy in his eyes.
*Sigh.*
Philip let his head fall back against the headrest and placed a folded handkerchief over his eyes to soak up the tears that wouldn't stop coming.
'Man, this sucks.'