You Buried My Daughter, I Burned Down Your Empire

I handled my daughter’s funeral arrangements myself.

From the moment the hospital released her body to the final signature at the crematorium, I did everything alone. The staff spoke to me in hushed voices, their eyes heavy with pity. Some of them had seen Sofia when she was still breathing, when she was still clutching that medicine meant for another woman. They avoided saying too much, but their silence carried more compassion than my husband ever had.

For two full days, Don Vincent Volkov never called.

Not once.

Ten years of marriage collapsed into those forty-eight hours of absence.

I neither ate nor drank. Grief hollowed me out until even breathing felt unnecessary. I printed the divorce agreement myself, placed it neatly on the coffee table in the mansion bearing the Volkov crest, and waited for him to return from wherever he had chosen to be.

When he finally walked in, he did not ask about his daughter.

Instead, he said coolly, “Where’s the medicine I told you to make Sofia deliver? Did she send it to the grave with her? Because of her delay, Roxanne was hospitalized for two days.”

For a moment, I almost laughed.

Send it to the grave?

Yes.

That was exactly where it went.

He removed his tailored coat with irritation and tossed it onto the sofa. The sharp scent of a woman’s perfume drifted through the room, sweet and unfamiliar, clinging to the fabric like an accusation.

I felt my chest tighten. Without a word, I walked to the drawer, took out my allergy pills, and swallowed them dry. The fragrance in the air was already making my throat itch.

He noticed and scoffed. “What are you trying to prove? Roxanne’s the one allergic to alcohol. Now you’re copying her? If she’s in the hospital covered in rashes, why aren’t you there apologizing?”

His voice rose as he continued, “Where is Sofia? Tell her to come out and apologize right now. Roxanne was generous enough not to blame her. She was miserable and still defended that child. You’ve spoiled Sofia beyond control. I’ll deal with her myself tonight.”

The word deal made something inside me snap.

I picked up the divorce papers and threw them in front of him.

“Sign them,” I said steadily. “Stop pretending you care about disciplining her. You have no right to raise your voice at her again. I’ll remove myself from your life and clear the way for you and Roxanne.”

Rage overtook his face instantly. He stepped forward and crushed the papers beneath his shoe before bending to tear them apart.

“Sofia did something wrong, and you’re turning it into a spectacle?” he barked. “Just because Roxanne is forgiving doesn’t mean I let that girl grow wild. And now you’re talking about divorce because I want to discipline my own daughter? Have you lost your mind?”

His words struck like bullets.

I stood up too quickly, and my vision blurred as dizziness washed over me. Still, I forced myself to speak.

“Discipline? What crime did Sofia commit that deserved being sent alone at night across the street? Do you even know what happened to her on the way—”

He cut me off sharply. “Enough. I asked her to buy medicine. So what? The streets were full of people. Nothing could have happened. Did she run to you crying again? You’ve raised her to be weak.”

With that, he pulled a small box from his suit pocket and tossed it onto the table in front of me.

“Will this stop your tantrum? Now call Sofia out here. I’ll speak to her myself. From now on, you stay out of how I teach her.”

I stared at him in silence.

In that instant, I understood something with terrifying clarity.

There was no reason to tell him that Sofia was dead.

He would not grieve.

He would only ask whether Roxanne had been slighted.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

I reached forward and opened the box. Inside lay a bottle of perfume.

The same scent clinging to his coat.

He had not even bothered to be discreet. He had simply purchased two identical gifts, handing one to me as casually as one tosses spare change to a beggar.

Every perfume contains alcohol.

He knew that I was severely allergic to it and had never once worn fragrance in our entire marriage. Meanwhile, Roxanne, who constantly claimed to be allergic to alcohol, bathed herself in perfume without hesitation.

But he never cared enough to notice.

In the past, I had accepted every gift he gave me with gratitude, no matter how careless or unsuitable, because I loved him. I convinced myself that intention mattered more than thoughtfulness.

Perhaps that was why he believed my love had no value.

Perhaps that was why he believed our daughter’s life had no value either.

When Sofia’s face surfaced in my mind, tears finally gathered in my eyes.

I looked at him and said quietly, “Sign the divorce. Sofia won’t trouble you again. She doesn’t need forgiveness, because she never did anything wrong.”

Her only misfortune was being born into the Volkov crime family.

My refusal to back down darkened his expression.

“I’ve had enough,” he snapped. “I brought you a gift and you still want more? Sofia isn’t a toddler anymore, and you’re threatening divorce over discipline? Let me warn you now, if you leave, don’t even think about taking custody. I’ve been more than generous to you.”

Generous.

The word echoed mockingly in the room.

After venting his anger, he turned and walked toward the bedroom, as if this argument were nothing more than one of our usual quarrels. For ten years, whenever he lost his temper, I was the one who softened first. I would cook his favorite dishes, wait beside him, and allow the silence to dissolve on its own.

He likely believed this would be no different.

He would sleep, wake up, and find me in the kitchen like always.

But this time, there would be no reconciliation.

When he disappeared upstairs, I gathered the house keys and placed them neatly on the table beside the torn divorce papers. I signed my name again on a fresh copy and left it where he could not miss it.

Then I walked out of the mansion I had lived in for five years, leaving behind the empire, the title of Mrs. Volkov, and the man who never even realized his daughter had already gone to the grave.