My Ex-Wife's Deadly Secret

I turned to the cabinet behind me, my gaze landing on a small figurine. Hidden inside was a USB drive.

It contained a digital archive of our history—every memory I had cherished. I had planned to give it to Layla at the wedding, a testament to our journey.

But that gift would never be delivered.

Just like the wedding that had been aborted halfway through, our story would have no second half.

I held the funeral for Mom. The mourning hall was awash in the scent of gardenias, her favorite flower.

The solemn atmosphere shattered when Layla walked in, holding Bryce's hand. The audacity of it made my blood run cold. As I watched, Bryce stepped forward, picked up three sticks of incense, and moved toward the burner as if he had every right to pay respects.

"Who gave you permission to be here?"

I intercepted him, sweeping my hand down to knock the incense from his grip.

The lit sticks scattered. A few flakes of hot ash landed on the back of Bryce's hand. He shrieked, instantly diving behind Layla for protection.

"Sis... it hurts! It hurts so much!"

Layla examined the faint red mark on his skin, her eyes flashing with misplaced indignation.

"He only came to offer incense, Brandon. Was that really necessary?"

Bryce peered out from behind her, his eyes already swimming with practiced tears. He reached out and grabbed my hand with a look of utter devastation.

"Brandon, I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you both a gift at the wedding. I really didn't know it would end like this! Sis has already punished me. I know I was wrong."

Bryce had mastered the art of playing the victim, and Layla was his eternal, willing audience. In the past, I had endured his theatrics for her sake.

But I was done enduring.

"Layla, I will say this once," I said, my voice low and dangerously even. "Get him out of here."

A murmur rippled through the guests. Everyone present knew the truth: Bryce was the one who had run my mother down. Fingers pointed; whispers of disgust circulated the room.

Hearing the crowd turn against him, the mask of the aggrieved child slipped from Bryce's face. His expression twisted into a sneer.

"She was just an old woman," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Even if I hadn't hit her, she would have died of old age eventually! If Sis hadn't made me come here to burn incense, do you think I'd bother with this place?"

He strode to the altar. Before anyone could react, his hands clamped around my mother's urn.

"You won't let me burn incense? Fine." He lifted the vessel high above his head, a manic glint in his eyes. "Then no one burns anything!"

"Don't!"

My heart slammed against my ribs. I lunged forward, but I was too late.

Crash.

The sound was sickeningly crisp. The ceramic shattered against the stone floor, sending a cloud of gray dust into the air.

A deathly silence fell over the hall. The guests froze, horror etched on their faces.

A stinging heat pricked behind my eyes and nose. I forced the tears back, dropping to my knees. Desperation clawed at my throat as I frantically scooped up the ashes with my bare hands, ignoring the sharp shards biting into my skin.

Above me, Bryce went on a rampage. He kicked over the flower arrangements and tore down the banners, destroying the memorial hall like a madman.

My mother's funeral was ruined.

I gathered what little remained of her ashes, clutching them to my chest as I walked out of the hall. Layla chased after me, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement.

"Brandon, wait! Bryce just has a bad temper. He can't stand it when people talk about him behind his back. He went a little too far this time, I admit," she said, breathless. "Don't worry. I'll pay for another funeral. I'll arrange everything..."

Her words, meant to soothe, only churned the bile in my stomach.

Layla grabbed my arm to stop me. I looked down at her hand, then at her face.

"No need."

I pushed her hand away. I didn't have the energy to fight them anymore. I just wanted to be away from their poison.

Layla stared at her empty hand, a flicker of unease tightening her chest.

I hadn't taken more than a few steps away from the mourning hall when my phone vibrated. It was the caregiver from the hospital.

"Mr. Delgado... your father's oxygen tube... it was pulled out."

The world tilted. The sentence struck me with the force of a physical blow.

Clutching the remnants of my mother's ashes, I raced to the hospital.

When I arrived, it was too late. A white sheet had already been drawn over my father's body.

"Who did this?" My voice was a broken rasp, trembling with rage so profound it felt like it would tear me apart. "Who the hell did this? I told you to guard this room! How did someone get in?"

After Layla had used my father's life as leverage, I had replaced all the staff and security. I thought I had made him safe.

The caregiver looked down, trembling.

"It was... it was Young Master Gilbert," she stammered. "He came in and said your father was wasting medical resources. He claimed to hold the hospital shares... and ordered the rescue efforts to stop."