My Daughter’s Funeral, My Last Goodbye

Brandon’s POV

I stood in the bathroom, staring at the row of toiletries she used to obsess over. Shampoo, serum, face mist—lined up just the way she liked them.

Nothing touched. Nothing moved.

I frowned and pinched the bridge of my nose.

How long had it been now? A week?

Had she really decided not to come back?

But this weekend, it was my birthday.

And every year, without fail, Camilla would go over the top. She’d bake the cake herself, hand-mix the frosting, even decorate the damn living room like we were throwing a kid’s party. Traditions meant everything to her. She never missed a birthday.

No way she’d miss this one.

My thumb hovered over my phone screen, halfway to sending her a message.

But then I scoffed, locked it, and slid it back into my pocket. 'Forget it.'

Later that night, I walked into the private suite with Sabrina on my arm. The birthday party was already in full swing—drinks flowing, voices loud, the usual crowd making noise like they owned the place.

“Oh, look who finally showed up—the bride and groom!” someone called out, halfway through their champagne.

“Don’t even need to guess why they were late,” another guy added with a grin. “Just look at Sabrina’s lipstick. Brandon probably snuck in dessert before dinner!”

The room roared with laughter.

I gave a faint smile, looked around at the faces—same circle, same fake jokes, same loud, rich people.

But something felt off.

Someone was missing.

And I realized it when I caught myself glancing at the door.

Camilla.

My smile started to fade.

...

A few drinks later, someone muttered, “Man… look at the time. Where’s Camilla? She’d usually be clinging to Brandon by now, right?”

That got quiet real fast.

Everyone suddenly remembered they didn’t know what side of the line they were standing on.

I leaned back in my chair, took a slow sip of whiskey, and said, “What’s up? You sound curious about my wife.”

The guy laughed nervously, hands up. “Nah, I just remembered last year. You got her so wasted that she puked bile all over her shoes. That night was nuts.”

Sabrina perked up and clapped her hands. “Wait, play the video! You know, the one where Camilla’s totally drunk. Put it on the screen.”

And the staff did what Sabrina requested. They played the clip on the big screen, full volume.

There she was, Camilla, drunk, stumbling, humiliated, everyone laughing like it was comedy gold.

The room was howling, except for me.

Distracted, I picked up my phone, opened her contact, and typed out a message:

[Camilla, where the hell are you?]

Red dot. I was blocked.

I stared at the screen for a second too long, like maybe it would change if I just waited.

Sabrina leaned in. “Something wrong?”

I forced a short laugh. “Nothing. Just got a little tipsy. Gonna get some air.”

Right there, I stepped out into the hallway and found a quiet corner near the exit.

I dialed Camilla's number, but her voice didn't come out.

Just that cold, automated voice: 'The number you have dialed is not in service.'

I called again. Same result.

So, I texted her again, but there was no reply.

The back of my neck started to tighten, but before I could think it through, I felt a familiar grip slide around my waist.

Sabrina’s voice in my ear whirled me out of my thoughts. “Brandon, your cake’s here. Come in and blow out the candles.”

Before I could answer, she pulled me back into the suite.

I was greeted by my tall birthday cake.

Nine layers, over-the-top, ridiculous.

Expensive as hell and not even close to what Camilla would’ve made.

Still, I asked the waiter, “Who ordered this?”

“It's Miss Sabrina,” he said. “She made the arrangements herself.”

I nodded, jaw tight. Said nothing.

We blew out the candles together. Or, well—she did. I barely moved.

Then came the parade of gifts.

Watches. Keys. Stock. All the usual gestures from people who didn’t know me.

Then Sabrina stepped forward with a small envelope in hand.

“Brandon,” she said, smiling. “We’re having a boy.”

My head went blank for a second.

I opened the envelope, stared at the results, then said, “That’s great, Camilla, we—”

Silence.

Complete, dead silence.

It hit me right after the words left my mouth.

I’d said her name.

Camilla.

Sabrina’s expression went cold in an instant. Her smile dropped. She stood up, shoved past the chairs, and stormed out without another word.

I was about to go after her when I heard Nathan’s voice behind me.

“Brandon,” he said. “Camilla asked me to give you something.”