Isadora Rivet, now a widow as solemn as an overcast sky but only in the image she so carefully curated— because heaven forbid anyone suspect she might have had something to do with her husband's sudden and tragic demise. Or, to be precise, the demise of the man who was playing husband while secretly 'monitoring' her, like some wannabe spy stuck in a bad mystery novel.
She sipped her morning tea with the elegance of a cat that just knocked over a priceless vase, flipping lazily through the newspaper. For once, she wasn't dressed to slay— both figuratively and literally. Instead, she wore a simple black blouse paired with high-waisted pants. It was a look that screamed, "I'm grieving!" while whispering, "Or am I just tired?"
The butler, ever the perfect portrait of a man who might have better things to do (but will never say so), entered to inform her of a visitor.
"Madam," he said with a bow that could rival a bending reed, "There is a guest asking for the late Master"
Her eyebrow twitched. Asking for Noel Rivet? Oh, the irony. She almost laughed, but she settled for a quiet smirk hidden behind her teacup.
If this visitor was here to see her late husband, there were two possibilities. Either they didn't know he was dead (awkward), or they were here for some shady merchant business. Or both because, let's be honest, the assassins had all gotten the memo— Noel Rivet had kicked the bucket and clocked out of life permanently.
Still, Isadora decided against shooing them away. Visitors often brought condolences wrapped in the kind of flattery that could feed her ego for days— or, on rare occasions, actual business opportunities.
Besides, due to her enhanced senses as a recorder, she could sense quite a few assassins keeping a good watch on her. Probably debating whether to take notes on her behavior or just admire her resilience post-"tragedy."
She waved her hand at the butler, her face an impressive canvas of exhaustion. No, it wasn't grief— Lucifer's relentless training had sapped every ounce of her energy. That demon of discipline had even convinced the assassins she'd simply moved hotels, which honestly deserved a round of applause.
But she knew why they took her back without further explanations, they think Lucifer had taken Isadora's sword to kill Noel, a pure mockery towards them— but they could not do anything at the time fearing Isadora's safety. What fools, fearing the safety of their enemy and former test subject.
Moments later, her guest arrived. A man stepped through the door with the air of someone who knew he was being watched but couldn't care less. He wore a cream double-breasted coat that looked freshly ironed, a gray flat hat perched confidently on his head, and a monocle that screamed, "I have better eyesight than you, but I wear this because I can... and to look more sophisticated."
The butler, still channeling the spirit of a silent movie actor, carefully set down the visitor's brown leather bag and polished black cane before stepping back like an artist admiring their masterpiece.
"Pleased to meet you, Madam Isadora," the man said with a bow so dramatic it deserved a standing ovation. "Detective Felix Hawke at your service. May I inquire where your husband might be?"
Oh, this was rich. Isadora almost snorted but caught herself just in time. She gestured toward the couch, masking her amusement with a weary sigh. "Please, have a seat before we talk."
Detective Hawke, not one to stand on ceremony, perched himself on the couch with the poise of a man about to crack a particularly juicy case— or maybe just ask for tea.
"What business do you have with my husband?" she asked, her tone the perfect blend of curiosity and boredom. "I trust he's not under investigation? I do doubt that man did anything warranting an investigation."
"Rest assured, Madam," the detective replied with a reassuring smile that could probably sell umbrellas in the desert. "This is merely regarding a minor case. Your husband isn't a suspect, but he might hold some valuable information."
"Oh…" Isadora trailed off, letting the silence hang for dramatic effect before delivering her line with the precision of a seasoned actress. "I regret to inform you that my husband has… passed."
The smile evaporated from Hawke's face faster than a sneeze in a hurricane. He stared at the table as though it was the most interesting piece of art in the universe. After a pause long enough to make her wonder if he'd fallen asleep, he finally raised his head. "My condolences." he paused again, "May I visit his grave?"
"Of course," Isadora said with the kind of magnanimity one reserves for handing out extra cookies. "It's not as if I've barred anyone from seeing it."
The butler moved to escort Hawke, but Isadora waved him off. "I'll accompany him. I have nothing better to do, and a walk sounds… therapeutic."
The butler didn't argue— he knew better than to poke that bear. Detective Hawke, on the other hand, simply nodded his thanks, probably realizing she was his best chance of not getting hopelessly lost. And speaking more seemed a worthless use of both time and energy.
The duo set off, the graveyard just a short stroll from the mansion. Noel's final resting place was under a sprawling oak tree, its leaves casting a dappled shadow over the solitary grave.
"Well," Isadora said, folding her arms and surveying the scene with an air of mild amusement. "There he is. Alone. Quiet. As he always wanted to be."
Hawke, to his credit, didn't bat an eyelid. He stood there and prayed silently for the soul's peaceful rest before reading the inscription on the tombstone.
"His worry was about tomorrow, but he died tonight."
"You wrote this?" He asked in mild amusement, it was neither respectful nor disrespectful words for a gravestone. But it was interesting.
"He asked me to write what I thought of him when he passed, said he'd do the same for me if I went first." She scoffed, "I had hoped for the latter obviously."
Hawke said nothing, he could not find the right words. Both stared at the grave in silence.
His worry was always about tomorrow, but he died tonight.