My Daughter’s Funeral, My Last Goodbye

Camilla's POV

Brandon's widowed sister-in-law, Sabrina, was expecting a baby.

At our daughter’s funeral, while the scent of lilies still clung to the air and the priest’s final words barely faded, he stood there with his arm around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we weren’t burying a child.

Our child.

He didn’t even look sad.

Then he glanced at me, his voice smooth, rehearsed. “Sabrina’s a good person. Even after everything she’s been through, she still came in person to pay her respects. If Lyra is watching from above, she’ll look after her little brother and make sure he grows up safe and healthy.”

His tone made it sound like he was eulogizing someone else’s child, like Sabrina was the one grieving.

Not me.

Not the mother standing there with a hollowed-out chest.

I didn’t say a word.

Instead, I slipped off the wedding ring I’d worn for six years, turned around, and walked straight out of the funeral hall without once looking back.

Later, a few of the older relatives tried to smooth things over, whispering apologies and excuses.

And Brandon? He just gave a cold, smug little laugh.

“Don’t bother with her,” he said. “Let her throw her tantrum. She’ll come crawling back eventually, begging for another chance.”

The entire Doyle family burst out laughing like he’d cracked the joke of the century. And they weren’t subtle about it either. They had actual money riding on me—bets on when I’d break, when I’d come crawling back to Brandon, begging him to give me another child.

But what none of them knew was that the private jet—booked by Brandon himself, no less—was already in the air.

Three more hours, and I’d be gone.

Gone from Port City. Gone for good.

——

Back in the villa, I was upstairs packing when Brandon finally came home. He didn’t ask what I was doing, nor did he even glance at the suitcase. Like it was any other day, he just took off his coat and loosened his tie.

Completely casual, he said, “Hey, Camilla, Sabrina’s craving chicken soup.”

'The nerve of him...' I crumpled my hand into a fist, calmly trying not to retaliate.

Right then, my mind jumped back to that night at the office when I refused to bring Sabrina a cup of coffee. Brandon made me kneel there, in front of everyone, all night long like some pathetic lesson in obedience.

'Two hours left and I'm done here,' I said to myself.

Recollecting myself, I zipped up my bag and headed for the kitchen. Ten minutes later, I heard Sabrina giggling from the living room, all syrupy sweet.

“Mmm, this soup’s amazing,” she said.

Brandon’s face relaxed a little. The usual tension around his mouth softened. Then he turned to me.

“Camilla,” he said, “as long as you treat Sabrina’s baby like it’s your own, I won’t divorce you.”

Not long ago, there was a time when just hearing the word 'divorce' would’ve wrecked me.

My heart would’ve jumped. My hands would’ve shaken.

But now?

Now I reached into my purse, pulled out the divorce papers I’d been holding onto for months, and laid them in front of him.

“Sign it,” I said quietly.

He didn’t even glance at them. Just arched a brow and snorted.

“Camilla, really? You think this weak-ass reverse psychology move is gonna work on me? I told you the day we got married. I only picked you because you looked like Sabrina. And if you’re still gonna act like this, I’ll just ship you overseas and leave you there to rot.”

Before I could get a word in, Sabrina let out this dramatic little gasp.

Brandon spun around like someone had pulled the fire alarm. “Sabrina? What’s wrong?”

“Brandon… I don’t know… I just feel itchy. All over,” she said, her voice soft and pitiful.

Her acting was so bad it was almost funny—like high school theater level.

But of course, Brandon didn’t care.

He was in full-blown panic mode—just not for me.

He stormed across the room, his face twisted in fury. “What the hell did you put in the soup?!” he barked, charging toward me like I’d just tried to commit a felony. “Are you trying to poison her?!”

I barely had time to part my lips before he grabbed the bowl off the table, scooped up what was left, and shoved the spoon into my mouth, forcing it down my throat without a second thought.

The thing is, I’m allergic to chicken.

He knew that.

Within minutes, my throat started to tighten. Breathing felt like trying to suck air through a straw. I collapsed to the floor, clutching at my neck.

“H-help…” I gasped. “I—I can’t…”

My vision blurred. A fire broke out across my skin, welts forming on my neck, my arms. I could barely lift my head.

And Brandon?

He had the nerve to look irritated, as if I were being inconvenient or my reaction was somehow ruining his night. Then he kicked me aside so he could get back to her.

I blacked out not long after.

Everything that followed was a blur: sirens screaming, cold hospital lights, the sharp sting of an IV sliding into my arm.

Half an hour later, I walked back into the house after getting cleared from the ER.

The second I stepped through the door, I heard them upstairs.

Moaning. Giggling.

“Brandon, ahh! Babe, go easy on me,” Sabrina’s voice floated down, syrupy sweet. “You have to be careful with the baby…”

He answered just as casually. “Don’t worry. You’re three months in now. It’s safe.”

Three months.

Exactly three months ago… was our wedding anniversary.

I stopped cold in the foyer. 'So that night, that late meeting at the office...'

That was the night he got her pregnant.

The realization didn’t just hit me. It detonated inside me.

I stood there, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the air drain from the room.

And just like that, something inside me snapped. Clean. Loud. Final.

I walked into his study room, grabbed the framed family photo from his desk, tore it to shreds, and tossed the pieces into the trash without blinking. Then I went straight to the safe box. I entered Sabrina’s birthday, took my ID, my passport, and all the important documents that mattered.

Without glancing back, I walked out of the villa.

At the front gate, the security guard straightened when he saw me approaching.

“Ma’am,” he said politely, “do you need a ride? Should I call the driver for you?”

I shook my head, calm and steady. “No need. The car I called is already waiting—”

But before I could even finish the sentence, the phone inside the security booth started ringing.