I Bought My Grave, Now My Husband Lives in It

My funeral was quiet. Not a single person showed up except Ryan.

He stood alone in the dim chapel, dressed in black, his face pale with grief.

For days, he’d been searching for a lawyer, even though most turned him down the second they heard he was planning to sue the CEO of the Young Group.

Still, he never stopped trying.

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the memorial hall burst open.

Peter stormed in with Leila following behind him in her usual designer heels.

Ryan stepped forward, trying to block them, but Peter waved him off.

“Hold him down,” Peter ordered, and his bodyguards sprang into action.

Then, with confident strides, Peter walked straight up to my memorial photo.

“Tsk,” he scoffed. “Looks pretty realistic. Faking your death to get a divorce and run off with another man?”

Peter then let out a bitter laugh, grabbed the framed photo, and slammed it to the floor.

“No!” Ryan yelled, fighting the guards, eyes wide with shock and fury.

Floating nearby, my soul watched it all in stunned silence.

Did Peter really hate me this much?

Meanwhile, Leila stepped closer. Her eyes landed on the urn behind the photo.

She wrinkled her nose as she said, “Peter, Selene actually went through the trouble of using ashes.”

Then, twisting her lips into a sneer, she added, “But what’s even in there? Baby formula? That’s disgusting.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. He grabbed a glass of water from a nearby table and headed toward the urn.

“Let’s find out, shall we? Let’s see how long she can keep this charade going.”

Ryan’s eyes went wild as he shouted, “Stop! Peter, stop! Those are her real ashes!”

But Peter's bodyguards forcibly held him down, and all he could do was scream in desperation.

“She’s really dead! Selene is gone!”

Peter ignored him. He flicked his wrist, causing the water to spill, soaking the urn and splashing the ashes.

Beside him, Leila stood there, satisfied.

That water felt like it splashed straight onto my soul, ice-cold and ruthless. I screamed, trying to reach them, to stop them, but I went right through the air.

All I could do was watch as they desecrated the last remains of me.

Ryan trembled with rage.

Then, with a wild burst of energy, he broke free and punched Peter hard across the face.

“Why are you doing this, Peter? Why can’t you just let Selene rest in peace?! She’s already dead!” Ryan roared. “Have you forgotten who saved our mother? How could you repay her kindness with this cruelty?”

Peter froze as he asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Genuinely confused, he frowned and kept going. “Our mother collapsed on the street. It was Leila who got her to the hospital. How could it have been Selene? I know you’ve always liked Selene, but don’t twist the truth to defend her lies.”

“It’s not a lie!” Ryan shouted. “I found the surveillance footage!”

From the corner of the room, Leila visibly paled. Her legs buckled slightly as the blood drained from her face.

But Peter didn’t notice.

Meanwhile, the guards pushed Ryan back onto the floor, his face flushing from the pressure. One of them struck him hard, and his body went limp.

I screamed again, desperate to stop them, but I couldn't do anything.

That moment—years ago, when Peter first fell for Leila—had been built on a lie.

What he never realized was that I was the one who had saved his mother.

Now, he stood there, silent and uncertain, Ryan’s words echoing in his mind.

Suddenly, his phone started vibrating violently in his pocket.

He answered.

A chilling voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Young, your daughter is with me. Pay ten million dollars, and I’ll let her go.”

Instantly, I remembered what Leila had said outside my daughter’s hospital room.

“It’s her! Peter, it’s Leila! She took Chiara! Save Chiara! Please save our daughter!” I shouted, trying desperately to make him hear me.

But he didn’t move.

Leila stepped in smoothly, her voice calm and measured. “The nanny said Chiara’s at home watching TV. She’s fine. This has to be a scam.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Who else would try something like this?”

I shook my head frantically in front of him.

Don’t believe her. Don’t believe Leila.

Then, he glanced down at his phone and let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Really, Selene? Now you’re pretending to be kidnapped? Using your own daughter? You have no soul.”

He paused, then spat into the phone. “You want $10 million? You’re not getting a dime. Go run your scam somewhere else.”

The voice on the other end dropped its act.

“No money? Fine. Your daughter’s gone. Her fingers are so soft. Let’s start with one. Call it interest for being stingy, Mr. Young.”

Suddenly, through the speaker, Chiara let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“No!”

I threw myself in front of Peter, panic consuming me. “Peter, that’s really our daughter! Please, save her! I’m begging you!”

I moved past him repeatedly, my soul shaking with despair. I wept—tears that somehow continued to fall, even in death.

Chiara’s cries continued over the phone.

Then came her weak, shaking voice. “Mommy... Daddy, help me…”

Peter flinched, his eyes widening as he stared at the phone. He recognized that voice.

It was his daughter’s.

Just as he was about to react, Leila stepped forward and calmly ended the call.

“Scammers are getting clever,” she said softly. “They can fake voices now. Don’t fall for it.”

Peter nodded slowly, but something had shifted in his expression. Uncertainty crept into his features as a strange, persistent unease settled in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move.

Moments later, sirens wailed outside. Red and blue lights flashed through the chapel windows.

A police officer approached, his face somber.

He handed Peter a sealed evidence bag.

“Mr. Young, we received a report,” the officer began. “Your daughter... we’re sorry. We were too late. Please accept our condolences.”

Inside the bag was a small, severed finger. The nail was painted pink—Chiara’s favorite color. Peter had painted it for her himself, just last month.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had ripped through his body.

He began to tremble uncontrollably.

“Chiara? It’s really Chiara?” His voice cracked.

The officer gave him a look of quiet sympathy. “We tried to contact her mother first. But then we learned that Ms. Selene passed away a few days ago. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Peter’s expression went blank. His gaze lost focus, fixed on nothing.

“Who?” he asked softly. “Who died?”

The officer hesitated but then said, “Mrs. Selene Young. Your wife.”

Peter didn’t speak. He stood there, frozen, as if the world had stopped turning.

His lips parted, barely audible, as he muttered, “Selene? She...died?”