Veil System: Running a Model, High-End Escort and Marriage Agency
Chapter 49: Fresh Start or a Damn Funeral Gift?

Chapter 49: Fresh Start or a Damn Funeral Gift?

Justin followed Sasha into what was supposed to be his bedroom—except, yeah, this wasn’t his room. At all.

This place was expensive as fuck. Dark-themed, rich in deep charcoal and midnight blue, with soft dark theme lighting casting just the right amount of dramatic glow. A massive bed, larger than necessary for a single guy, sat at the center with lush black bedding and a ridiculous number of pillows, as if someone expected him to drown in comfort.

The headboard was a sleek leather panel with built-in lighting, and everything screamed luxury—no, not just luxury—but that borderline absurd rich people don’t even sleep here, they just look at it type of vibe.

To the side, a whole-ass walk-in closet, doors slightly ajar to reveal rows of his neatly hung designer clothes. Another door led to a bathroom, probably big enough to house a small country. And across the room? A sitting area, complete with plush dark velvet couches that looked like they belonged in a high-end nightclub. A massive TV was mounted on the wall, and the ceiling?

Damn—crystal chandeliers, mirrored panels, a setup so extra it felt like a villain’s lair.

Justin ran his fingers over the soft, freshly polished wood of the nightstand, then let his feet sink into the ridiculously plush rug beneath him.

Yeah, no doubt about it. This place was fresh. Like just unboxed, still smells like money fresh.

He turned to Sasha, his personal maid and childhood friend, narrowing his eyes. "Okay, how long have y’all been working on this?"

Sasha, standing with her arms crossed like she owned the place, smirked. "Since your parents left on that bussines trip that they never came back from. They had it planned, ordered everything, supervised it remotely. It’s been a month. Just finished today."

A month?

Justin exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. That didn’t sit right. His parents had only been gone for two days—officially, anyway. Yet, here was this perfectly curated new space, like they had known they wouldn’t be coming back.

The thought unsettled him.

He dragged his fingers over the fabric of the bed, the fresh scent of new leather, wood polish, and unused linens wrapping around him. It was too much.

"You like it?" Sasha’s voice pulled him back.

He nodded slowly, still absorbing everything. "I love it."

Sasha’s lips curled into a small smile as she stepped closer, watching him with that knowing look. She could see it—the way he wasn’t dealing with shit.

His parents were dead. He knew that. But knowing and accepting were two different things, and right now? Yeah, he was solidly in the fuck this, didn’t happen stage.

Sasha sighed, shaking her head. "Look, Justin... I know you. You’re sitting on this pain like it’s a damn investment, waiting for the perfect moment to crash. But that’s not how it works. The longer you hold it in, the worse it’s gonna be when it finally hits."

Justin opened his mouth, ready to argue, but—nope. Sasha didn’t give him the chance.

She stepped forward and hugged him, her arms wrapping around him before he could react. His head ended up resting against her shoulder—because yeah, he was taller, but she made it work.

Justin froze. His arms hung awkwardly at his sides. The fuck was he supposed to do?

"What’re you doing?"

"You need to let it out, dumbass," she muttered.

He exhaled, his chest feeling tight. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was what he needed.

Maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t keep running from it forever.

Justin had wrapped himself in the embrace of pleasure, sex and planning for the next targets to work on and conquer, drowning himself in distractions like they were lifelines. It had worked—at least, for a little while.

The nonstop calculations, the next moves in taking the agency higher, the cold efficiency of keeping busy—it had all kept him from facing the one thing he didn’t want to deal with.

Their death.

He had refused to cry. Refused to let himself sink into that bottomless pit of grief. He had already let himself break yesterday—just for a moment—but that was yesterday. He wasn’t going to do it again.

But who the hell does that?

Who succeeds in outrunning grief when it’s got their name tattooed on its damn forehead? When it knows their every move and is just waiting for the moment they stop running?

Because the second they do—it hits.

And right now, as Sasha held him, the dam shattered.

A sharp inhale. A tightening in his chest.

Fuck.

Justin’s fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, gripping like she was the only thing keeping him standing. His throat closed up, and before he could even think to shove it all back down, it happened—the pain.

A wrecking ball of reality, slamming into his ribs, knocking the air out of him.

His parents were gone.

Gone.

The people who raised him. The people who had always been there, even when they weren’t physically there. The ones who knew him better than anyone—who had somehow, somehow, foreseen all of this and left him this room like some kind of pre-written farewell.

He sucked in a breath—sharp, shaky.

His fingers clenched tighter.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just standing there. His body shook. His breath came out in ragged, uneven gasps, his shoulders trembling. His vision blurred, and his face pressed into Sasha’s shoulder, his whole body screaming at him to keep it together—but he couldn’t.

Tears burned his eyes but didn’t shed them, and no matter how much he wanted to deny it, fight it, bury it—it overflowed.

A broken, shattered breath.

A single sob—just one.

Then another.

And another.

And suddenly, Justin Black—the one who always had a plan, always had control—was completely fucking undone.

Justin’s body gave out.

One second, he was standing—the next, he was sinking, his legs losing all their strength as if the sheer weight of his grief had yanked him straight to the ground. The plush rug beneath them caught him, soft and warm, but it did nothing to stop the collapse happening inside him.

Sasha followed, holding onto him, guiding him down as if she knew this was coming. And of course, she did—she knew him better than anyone.