My Daughter’s Funeral, My Last Goodbye

Camilla's POV

On the drive home, I sat in the back seat, silent, staring out the window while Brandon and Sabrina’s soft moans and giggles floated up from the front.

They weren’t even trying to hide it.

Sabrina was curled against him like a high school girl on a date, her voice all sugary-sweet as she whispered, “Brandon, you’re so bad… We shouldn’t be doing this. What if Camilla finds out?”

Brandon let out a low laugh and leaned in to nip at her ear, acting like I wasn’t even there. But I caught him checking the rearview mirror—again and again—trying to catch a reaction.

I gave him nothing.

Just kept tapping away at the mobile game on my phone, calm as ever.

If he was waiting for a meltdown, he was going to be disappointed.

But I saw it.

The same flicker in his eyes I’d noticed that night outside the bathroom. The suspicion, the unease, creeping back in like smoke curling around a flame.

Then came the snap.

“Camilla, hand me a tissue,” he barked, holding out a damp hand without even looking.

I didn’t blink. Just passed him a tissue and went right back to my screen like he was invisible.

Not a second later, he yelled, “What the hell are you even looking at?”

Before I could say a word, he reached over and yanked the phone from my hands. His eyes narrowed the second he saw the lock screen.

“Why did you change your background?”

For years, it had been the same photo of me, him, and Lyra. That perfect little image of a family that never really existed. But that was gone and replaced by a random default image that was generic and meaningless.

And somehow, that hit him.

His whole expression changed. His jaw clenched. His face darkened like a storm cloud rolling in.

When I didn’t answer, he threw the phone back at me, disgusted.

As we started winding up the hill toward the villa, Sabrina piped up like a child with a craving.

“Brandon, I really want shrimp croquettes…”

Brandon didn’t even hesitate.

He hit the brakes hard, turned to me, and said coldly, “Get out. Go home and make dinner.”

Just like that. No shame. No explanation.

He kicked me out of the car like I was an assistant who’d overstepped. Like I was nothing.

So I walked.

Two hours in heels, each step cutting deeper, until the skin on my feet was torn and bleeding.

But I made it.

I didn’t stop. Just went straight to the spot near the villa gate where I’d hidden my documents. My fingers were shaking as I dug them out, but I didn’t care—I was done.

I was leaving.

And just as I turned to go, a rusted-out truck came screeching around the corner. Tires screeched. Dust flew.

Before I could move, two men jumped out.

No warning. No talking.

Just hands—rough, fast, unforgiving. They grabbed me and dragged me toward the truck. Blacked-out windows. Slammed doors. Gone.

...

When I came to, the air was thick with dust and the stench of rusted metal. I was on the cold floor of what looked like an abandoned mine. Vision blurry. Limbs numb. The silence pressed down like a weight.

And then I saw her.

Sabrina.

She looked like she was headed to a fashion shoot with her heels, red lipstick, and a designer coat.

Not a hair out of place.

She walked toward me slowly, heels clacking against the concrete with every step. Then, with zero hesitation, she ground the pointed toe of one into the back of my hand.

I didn’t flinch.

Her lips curled into a sneer. “God, Camilla. Look at you. You’re pathetic! Brandon and I are having a baby, and you’re still clinging to him like a sad little leech.”

She knelt beside me, voice dipped in faux sympathy, but her eyes were gleaming. “Still playing the victim, huh? Still hoping he’ll feel guilty enough to throw scraps your way? Let me save you the heartbreak, idiot, Brandon’s only ever loved one woman.”

She then leaned closer, her breath like sugar laced with poison. “And it’s me.”

I must’ve smiled—just a little.

Her expression twisted instantly. “You bitch! What are you laughing at?!”

I looked her dead in the eye. “You. You're just wasting your time, Sabrina. This...your entire plan? It’s just embarrassing.”

She snapped.

Her hand flew before I could blink.

Once.

Then again.

Harder the second time.

But this time she smiled while she did it, like she enjoyed it. Like she'd been waiting for the excuse.

“You still think you’re winning?” she hissed. “You never figured out what really happened to your daughter, did you?”

My stomach dropped.

Sabrina leaned in, so close I could see every ounce of venom in her eyes.

“At Lyra’s birthday party,” she said with a twisted smile, “I made a little joke. Told her, ‘If you’re brave enough to eat a whole snot slug, your daddy will come home and blow out the candles with you.’ I didn’t think she’d actually do it. But she did.”

My stomach dropped.

“She got sick—really sick. You didn’t know that part, did you? She called Brandon herself. While we were watching a movie.”

She shrugged, so casually I could’ve screamed.

“He looked at the caller ID and said, ‘She’ll be fine. Let her sleep it off.’ Then he hung up.”

I couldn’t breathe. My entire body went cold.

And then something inside me snapped.

I lunged. “You heartless witch!”

I grabbed her by the hair and dragged her deeper into the mine, yanking her toward the exact spot I knew they had buried the dynamite.

She shrieked, kicking and flailing, nails clawing at my arms as she cursed me like a woman possessed.

That’s when the men came back. They saw us, yelled, and rushed in.

They slammed me to the ground. Fists flew. Boots hammered into my ribs, into my back. It all came in waves—sharp, crushing, unrelenting.

Then, somewhere in the chaos, someone stepped on the detonator.

A deafening boom shattered through the cavern. The ground shook like the earth itself had cracked open. The walls groaned. Dust and debris rained from above.

The mine roared like a living, angry beast.

And for a split second, I thought: 'This is it.'

The walls shuddered. The air turned to smoke. The ground cracked beneath us.

And then, I heard him.

“Camilla!” Brandon’s voice, wild with panic, rang through the dust and rubble.

More shouting followed—authorities, police.

“Mr. Doyle! You can’t go in! It’s not safe—the mine’s collapsing!”

But he didn’t stop. “I don’t care! I’m going in to get her!”

He shoved past them, disappearing into the debris. Somehow, through all that smoke and broken stone, he found me.

Our eyes met, just for a second.

And then, from behind him, came that voice.

Soft. Fragile. Timed like a dagger.

“…Brandon.”