"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.

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