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.

Camilla's POV

About thirty minutes later, I found myself strapped to a hospital bed, thick restraint bands digging into my wrists. My skin was cold, my mind foggy—but my ears caught every word of the argument happening just outside the door.

Brandon’s voice cut through first, sharp, irritated.

Then came Dr. Nathan Reed, Brandon's childhood friend.

“Brandon, I don’t care if you feel nothing for Camilla anymore,” Nathan snapped. “She carried your children without complaint. She stood by you for six damn years. And now, just because Sabrina’s pregnancy is high-risk, you’re tying Camilla down and forcing her into a uterus transplant? You understand that no matter what happens to Sabrina, Camilla will never be able to have children again.”

“Not having children is just fine. Sounds ideal, doesn’t it?” Brandon’s voice came back flat and emotionless. “Besides, Lyra’s death just proved Camilla was never meant to be a mother. Taking her uterus out ends this little fantasy she keeps clinging to—about giving me another kid. Women like her will do anything for a piece of status. As long as they’ve got food and a roof over their head? They'll follow orders.”

Then I heard footsteps approaching my room. I quickly shut my eyes and forced my body still.

A finger brushed a stray hair off my cheek.

“Camilla,” Brandon murmured, his voice soft. “If you just cooperate and go through with this simple surgery, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

For the first time in our marriage, he truly sounded gentle.

But I didn't flinch. Without glancing at him, I slowly opened my eyes, keeping my focus on Nathan, who stood behind him.

“Dr. Reed,” I said quietly, “please go ahead with the surgery. I’ve got something I need to take care of after.”

Nathan blinked. “Something to take care of?”

Disbelief etched itself into Brandon's face as he turned towards me. His lips parted, his eyes hardening into that familiar, chilling stare, questioning what a woman like me, a housewife, could be up to in the middle of the night.

Before he could say anything, his phone rang.

I recognized the ringtone instantly—Sabrina.

He picked up without hesitation.

"Sabrina, there's no need to be scared," he said gently. “I’m coming right now.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Nathan’s eyes lingered on the door before turning back to me, his expression softening with pity.

“Camilla,” he said quietly, “you still have a choice. It’s not too late.”

I remembered my dad. A decade ago, Brandon paid for his chemotherapy and hospital expenses.

So I gave Nathan a faint smile, shook my head, and said, “I just need one favor from you, Dr. Reed…”

...

Two hours later, the first thing I saw was Brandon, sitting by the bed like he’d been there all night. Judging by his calm, almost satisfied expression, I could tell that Sabrina’s surgery must’ve gone smoothly.

He leaned forward to me and asked, “Camilla, you didn't tell me earlier what you want as a reward."

I blinked slowly, keeping my voice even. “You can peel me an apple.”

That simple, harmless request made him pause, catching him off guard.

He must have thought I was starving because, just minutes later, the room was overflowing with takeout bags from all my favorite restaurants. Back then, Brandon barely ever sat down to eat with me. But now, he was right there at the table, watching, waiting for me to dig in.

But I didn’t touch a thing.

He frowned, set down his utensils. “If none of this is what you want, just tell me. I’ll have someone bring you whatever you’re craving.”

I looked straight at him and said plainly, “It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”

Right then, my phone buzzed.

The number was unknown and did not have a caller ID.

Curious, I got up, stepped into the bathroom, and answered, "Hello?"

The familiar voice on the other end was low, gravelly, and tinged with worry. “Camilla, I just landed at Port City Airport. I don’t see you. Is it because…you still can’t let go of him?”

“No,” I said quickly. “Something came up on the way. I got delayed.”

His voice tightened. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you? Just send me your location. I’ll come find you.”

I cut him off gently before he could spiral. “I’ve got it handled. Can you wait for me?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Of course, I’ll wait.”

And that was all I needed to hear. I lowered my head, pressing my lips together, trying to hold back the smile tugging at the corners.

Then a loud slam startled me. The bathroom door burst open, and Brandon stood in the doorway.

He marched in, his eyes blazing.

Camila's POV

“Camilla, who were you talking to in there?” Brandon asked, his voice low, suspicious, already tilting toward confrontation.

I ended the call just in time and met his gaze—steady, unbothered.

“Just a friend,” I replied, cool and flat.

'Just a friend.' The words tasted ridiculous the second they left my mouth.

What kind of “friend” do you sneak off to the bathroom to call while your husband’s sitting in the next room?

He was already connecting the dots, probably gearing up for one of his signature interrogations—half accusation, half performance, when a low rumble of thunder rolled in from outside the window.

And just like that, I lost him. His whole body tensed, attention shifting.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and rushed down the hallway toward the VIP suite.

Because, of course, Sabrina was afraid of thunderstorms.

Every time it rained, he dropped everything to be with her. It didn’t matter what he was doing or if I was in the middle of a sentence or a breakdown.

I used to cry. I used to beg. I used to chase after him like my love could compete with her fear.

But this time? I didn’t move.

No scene. No meltdown. No grabbing of his sleeve and whispering, 'Please don’t go!'

I just stood there.

Halfway down the hall, he slowed down, looking confused.

I wasn’t behind him.

Something twisted in his face—tight, foreign. He furrowed his brow, not sure why it suddenly felt wrong.

But he didn’t turn back. He just kept walking, assuming I was finally learning my place.

...

The next day, as if I’d somehow earned a reward, Brandon dragged me to the mall.

No heads-up. No, “Do you want to come?”

He just pulled me along with him and Sabrina as if I were a dog on a leash. I trailed behind them while they wandered from boutique to boutique, laughing and whispering as though they were the stars of some painfully cliché romance.

And me? I was the extra in the background.

Everyone in that mall knew I was Mrs. Doyle. But it didn’t matter. Not to them. Not to him.

Salesgirls smiled politely—too politely—as they handed me shopping bags like I was the hired help.

“Thank you for stopping by, ma’am,” one chirped, her eyes flicking to Sabrina like she was royalty. I stood there holding heels, designer sweaters, a stupid pink maternity coat—as if I should be grateful.

Brandon didn’t say a word. He had one arm around Sabrina, planting a kiss on her hair while she leaned into him with that smug little smirk.

By the time we made it to the elevator, my arms were numb. I was sore, still recovering from surgery, barely hanging on.

And then I missed a step. My foot caught the edge. My knee buckled.

Everything—bags, boxes, pride—crashed to the floor with me. I hit the ground hard, pain lancing through my shoulder as clothes and shopping bags scattered everywhere like some pathetic explosion of luxury.

Neither of them turned around.

Not even once. No one turned back.

While I was picking myself up, Brandon was already in the baby boutique with Sabrina, helping her pick out onesies.

Pink or blue? She couldn’t decide.

He just smiled, pulled out his black card, and handed it to the clerk.

“We’ll take everything,” he said.

I finally caught up, still looking a mess, just in time to hear one of the employees gush to Sabrina.

“Ma’am, I’m so jealous of your little baby. He’s not even born yet, and he already has such a perfect, loving dad.”

Looking at the little star-patterned hair tie around my wrist, I remembered the day when our daughter, Lyra, was struck by sudden, acute meningitis.

Her fever wouldn’t break. Her lips were pale. Her little hands kept reaching for me.

I had called Brandon 199 times.

His phone wasn’t off. He just didn’t pick up.

In the ER, her voice was barely a whisper. “Mommy… I promise I won’t steal milk candy again.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Why would you say that, baby?”

“Because Daddy must be mad at me,” she said. “I wasn’t good. That’s why he won’t come to see me. Mommy, I’m sorry. I’m a useless kid. I couldn’t help you make Daddy love you.”

Later, when the doctors told me she might not make it, I went to Sabrina’s apartment and begged to let Brandon come to the hospital with me.

I dropped to my knees outside her door, pleading.

Crying.

She didn’t come out. But her bodyguards did.

They dragged me down the hallway and slapped me.

Over and over.

By the time the hospital called to say Lyra was gone, Brandon was just waking up from his afternoon nap. He opened the door, yawned, and looked at me like I was trash left on the curb.

My face was swollen and bruised. I could barely speak.

All he said was, “Didn’t I tell you not to bother Sabrina? This is what you get for not listening.”

Snapping back to the present, I put down all the shopping bags, turned around, and started walking toward the exit. Just then, Brandon grabbed my wrist with a firm grip and pulled me into the jewelry store on the top floor.

“Camilla,” he said, his tone unreadable, “didn’t you always complain about wanting a necklace?”

He brushed my hair off my shoulder, trying to make it look like some affectionate gesture. Then he turned to the counter and started browsing.

Off to the side, Sabrina watched in silence. Then, as if on cue, she stepped in, curling herself against his chest.

She looked at me with a soft, sugary smile.

“Camilla,” she said sweetly, “if it weren’t for your generous donation of your uterus, our baby might not have made it. Brandon, don’t you think we should have a little dinner tonight to thank her properly?”

Brandon smiled down at her, brushing her bangs aside like she was made of porcelain.

“My precious Sabrina, whatever you want, we’ll do it," he replied.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t decline.

I had some documents I needed to grab from the villa, anyway.

So I smiled faintly, nodded, and said nothing. It wasn't because I wanted dinner.

It was because I needed to go back one last time.