My husband’s mistress ran a red light, crashed into his sister and grandmother, and killed them instantly. Two lives snuffed out in a single heartbeat.

Yet the court decided I was fabricating everything for money.

I filed lawsuit after lawsuit—five in total—trying to make them pay, only to lose every single one.

Just as I was gearing up for a sixth appeal, I discovered something that made my blood run cold: the morgue had lost their bodies. Stolen. Vanished.

Before I could even dial the police, Victor—my husband, the esteemed lawyer—strode in, tossing a thick wad of cash onto the table like it was nothing.

“Five thousand,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. “You should know by now that no case you bring can beat me. No matter how solid your evidence looks, you’ll never win. Those two were frauds, trying to milk the system. And now their bodies? Sold. Got five thousand for both. That’s the price of their lives. And don’t bother Ivy anymore.”

I froze, staring at the money. And then it hit me. He thought it was my family who had died, not his.

Quietly, I pushed the cash back toward him. “I can’t accept this.”

His brow furrowed in irritation. “What, not enough? Marielle, wake up. Your so-called family had no jobs, no influence. Five grand for both is more than fair. Don’t act greedy.”

I shook my head, lips twisting into a bitter smile. “No… I meant it. Keep it. You should keep it.”

His face contorted with disgust. “Are you insane? That’s money from your family’s corpses! You think I’d touch that kind of filth?”

He said it like he was a saint, like he couldn’t possibly be in the wrong.

I studied him. Victor had grown up under that grandmother’s care. She had worked herself to exhaustion raising him and his sister, the people he claimed to cherish above all else. He used to speak of her as if she were a living angel. And yet, now she and his sister were dead, and he had buried himself in work while shielding Ivy as if she were his family.

Now I understood. He didn’t realize the dead were his. He believed they were mine.

I met his gaze, calm on the surface, trembling underneath. “Victor… you should take that money and buy their bodies back. Otherwise… you’ll regret it.”

He chuckled dryly. “You don’t understand the black market. Once something’s sold, it’s gone. They’ve probably been chopped up already. You’ll never get them back. Just take the money and stop making a scene.”

I couldn’t speak.

They weren’t even my blood. But they were his. And now, because of Ivy, they were dead, labeled as frauds, and sold by the hand of their own kin. The ache in my chest made it almost impossible to breathe.

I didn’t know when Victor had turned into this kind of man. Maybe he’d always been capable of it.

“Victor,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper, “you know a lot about the black market. So tell me… how could you? How could you sell their bodies? Didn’t it bother you at all?”

He leaned back lazily, rubbing his temple, that smug little smirk curling on his face. “Why would it? They weren’t my family. They were yours. And dead people don’t care. I gave them value—more than they had, don’t you think? Besides, they caused the accident, right? Killed two people, left Ivy traumatized, and here you are, still clinging to it. Marielle… let it go.”

My voice barely escaped. “They caused it?”

He shrugged. “Ivy was driving perfectly. Your people ran into her path like idiots. You should be grateful we didn’t sue. You keep treating this like it matters. Just take the five grand and move on.”

I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t cry. He had no idea. Not even a flicker of recognition.

He thought his sister and grandmother—the only family he’d ever truly had—were mine. His own blood? Trash, sold without a second thought.

I leaned in slightly, voice steady but ice cold. “What if… what if you’re wrong about who died?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with your drama. I know my family. The ones who died? Yours. Nobodies. Now you want to pretend otherwise, just to guilt me?”

He was so arrogant, so assured, so painfully blind.

And he kept speaking, oblivious to the knife each word drove into my heart.

“People like that… old, fragile, useless. They were waiting for death anyway. Your so-called sister? Jobless. The old lady? Couldn’t even walk properly. So selling them wasn’t wrong—they gained value, didn’t they? Five grand is better than nothing.”

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.

He thought he was clever, logical, reasonable.

And I remembered their hands—the trembling hands of the grandmother pouring tea, the sister sewing his buttons, laughing at his forgetfulness, calling him a “good man, just focused on work.” They had loved him. Truly loved him.

I forced a calm smile, my voice low, almost venomous. “You’re right, Victor. Keep the money. If five grand is the price of a life… you’ll need it someday.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I stood, pale, hands shaking. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Victor Ramirez—the brilliant, arrogant lawyer—had just sold his own family. And he didn’t even know it.

“Just take the money and stop being difficult,” Victor said, his tone sharp and dismissive, as if I were some street beggar. “Tomorrow, buy her something nice. Apologize at the office. I don’t want to hear another word about this.”

He shoved the crumpled bills across the desk and left without even glancing back.

I stayed frozen, staring at the cash. That was all it took to sink in. The man I once admired, the one who had once fought tooth and nail for justice and truth… was gone. Whatever remained of Victor Ramirez was hollow, decayed, beyond repair.

And our marriage? It had died long before that morning.

---

I woke early the next day, printed the divorce papers, and headed straight to his office. My hands were steady. My mind, resolute.

But as soon as I pushed open the glass door, the air was sucked out of my lungs.

Victor sat across from Ivy at his desk—the very desk I used to bring him coffee to in the mornings. A breakfast tray lay between them: croissants, fruit, steaming mugs of coffee. It looked almost cozy, domestic.

And then I saw it.

He was feeding her.

Victor, crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up, forked a piece of fruit and held it to her lips. Ivy leaned forward, giggling, her hand resting casually on his thigh, fingers curling possessively, as if she already belonged there.

“Careful,” he murmured, brushing a drop of juice from her lips with his thumb.

I froze in the doorway.

Ivy spotted me first.

“Oh—Marielle! I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, fluttering her lashes, hand still on his leg. “Victor was just making sure I ate something… I’ve been skipping breakfast lately.” She turned to him, gripping his arm lightly, eyes brimming with well-rehearsed fear. “Victor, please explain… I don’t want her to think something’s wrong between us.”

Victor smiled down at her, that soft, reassuring smile I once lived for. “Hey, don’t cry,” he said, patting her back gently. Then his gaze snapped to me, hard and cold.

“I told you to bring something as an apology,” he said, voice clipped. “Where is it? You show up empty-handed and expect her to forgive you? Marielle… act like an adult. Do you even know how to apologize?”

I stared, dumbfounded. He truly believed I owed her anything. Pathetic.

Ivy sniffled, lowering her gaze, voice soft and trembling. “It’s okay, Victor… maybe she didn’t have time. I don’t want to make things worse between you two.”

Her act was flawless—I almost wanted to clap.

I didn’t speak. I pulled the divorce papers from my bag, laid them neatly on his desk, and said, “Sign this. I’m done.”

Victor blinked, stunned. “What?”

“Sign the divorce papers,” I repeated, calm and unwavering. “This marriage is over.”

He scowled. “You’re joking, right? My family… they loved you. My grandmother adored you, my sister treated you like her own. You really think I’d divorce you now? You’re just looking for attention.”

I smiled bitterly. “Your family loved you, yes. But go home and see for yourself. You’ll understand soon enough.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Go home,” I said quietly. “It’ll become clear.”

He slammed his hand on the desk. “Marielle, stop talking nonsense! Your relatives died, not mine! How long are you going to keep blaming Ivy for that accident? It’s pathetic.”

Ivy let out a small, practiced gasp, voice soft and tremulous. “Please, stop arguing because of me. I’ll leave if I have to. I don’t want to be the reason this marriage falls apart…”

Victor immediately moved to comfort her. “Hey, none of this is your fault,” he said, brushing her tears away like she was fragile porcelain.

I watched them for a long moment. He, blind to the truth, and she, smiling like a saint while hiding a serpent’s teeth.

“You’re right, Ivy,” I said quietly. “You are the reason this marriage ended. But don’t worry… I’m done fighting for a man who can’t even tell whose blood he’s covered in.”

“Marielle, you’ve got it all wrong!” Ivy’s voice shook, pleading. “Yes, okay, I bought my driver’s license, I’m not perfect, but that accident… it wasn’t my fault! You’re trying to divorce Victor just to pressure me, right? Make him send me to jail?”

Her hands trembled, voice cracking in all the right places, perfectly practiced. If I didn’t know better, I might have believed her too.

Victor, of course, did. Before I could speak, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close like she was fragile glass.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured. “You’re just a new driver, Ivy. You didn’t mean for any of this. Stop blaming yourself. As long as I’m here, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

I just stood there. My husband—the man who once swore he’d defend the innocent—was now shielding a murderer.

Then his expression snapped from gentle to furious, eyes blazing.

“Marielle, enough!” he barked. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? This divorce is your attempt to blackmail me. Revenge against Ivy! She’s twenty-five, she made a mistake. Your family’s death? An accident. Their own fault! And if you think I’ll pay you… dream on!”

He stepped closer. “Try to hurt her, and you’ll regret it. Don’t push me.”

His words cut sharper than a slap.

I wanted to scream. To make him see. But he wouldn’t. He never did.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stay level. “Victor… I’m done explaining, done pleading. This marriage—” I met his gaze, steady, unwavering, cold—“is over.”

He stared like I’d struck him. Something dark flickered in his eyes.

“You think you can just walk away?” he hissed. “You think I’ll let you?”

He grabbed the papers from my hands, ripped them apart, and tossed the pieces into the air.

The shredded paper drifted down like snow, a silent testament to all the years I’d wasted on him.

“Over?” he sneered. “You’ll never leave me, Marielle. Not until I say so.”

I looked at the fragments on the floor—my freedom, my voice, my choice—and whispered, more to myself than to him:

“Watch me.”

“You really intend to leave me, huh?” Victor’s voice cut through the room, low and hard. “Fine. You want this divorce? You’ll have it—but don’t expect to walk away unscathed, Marielle.”

He took a step closer, jabbing a finger toward my face. “When we sign the papers, I write the terms. You won’t get a cent. Not a single scrap of dignity. You’ll walk out of my life the same way you came in: weak, empty-handed, pathetic.”

His eyes burned with rage, venom dripping from every word. “And don’t think I won’t make the world see who you really are. I’ll expose you. I’ll tell everyone you exploited your so-called grandmother and sister’s deaths for money. That you filed fake cases just to squeeze compensation out of people. My family will see the monster they treated like a daughter.”

The torn divorce papers fluttered like ashes in the air. Among the drifting pieces, I caught a glimpse of Ivy. She lingered behind him, feigning fear, but the tiny smirk at the corner of her lips gave her away. She was loving every second.

I didn’t respond. Words had lost all meaning. I turned and walked out, leaving him behind with his perfect little accomplice.

---

Back home, silence swallowed me whole. I packed my clothes methodically, folding each piece into a small suitcase, forcing myself to move past the photos, the memories, the echoes of laughter that now felt like knives in my chest. I just wanted out.

I’d barely reached the bottom of the stairs when the noise outside hit me.

People were running toward me, a swarm, snarling like wolves.

Phones, cameras, microphones—all aimed at me.

“There she is!” a woman screamed. “The woman who faked her grandmother and sister’s accident to steal money!”

Another voice shouted from further back. “Even when they really died, she still tried to milk cash! Who does that?”

“Didn’t she push that poor girl, Ivy, into depression? I heard she tried to end her life because of her!”

“And thank God her husband’s a decent man—a real lawyer who stood for truth, not that greedy woman! He’s the reason justice prevailed!”

Laughter, shouting, cameras flashing.

And there they were—Victor and Ivy, at the back, watching, smiling.

It hit me then. Every bit of this—cameras, the crowd, the live stream—it had been planned. Humiliation, public destruction… orchestrated by him.

And it worked.

Within hours, the videos were everywhere. My face splashed across every screen. Comments rolled in, endless and merciless:

“What kind of woman uses her family’s death for cash?”

“No wonder her grandma died early! Karma caught up with her bloodline!”

“She’s disgusting. She shouldn’t exist!”

“The car hit the right people this time.”

Thousands of strangers, all shouting names: “Scammer! Liar! Heartless! Trash!”

Those words followed me everywhere. On screens. In whispers. In the air I breathed.

That day, I didn’t just lose my husband.

I lost my name.

I lost myself.

The crowd surged, throwing rotten vegetables, eggs, even bottles. The stench of spoiled food mixed with hate was suffocating. Someone screamed “Murderer!” another shouted “Homewrecker!”—and none of them had a clue what actually happened.

I could’ve turned back. I should’ve. But I didn’t.

I walked through it all—trash clinging to my shoes, yolk dripping down my sleeve—straight to Victor.

“Victor,” I said quietly, voice trembling, “do you really need to humiliate me like this? In front of everyone?”

He looked annoyed. Ivy stepped forward before he could answer.

“Marielle…” she sniffled, clutching her chest, tiny, fragile. “I know you’re hurting after… after Grandma and my accident, but please… stop blaming me. I didn’t mean it. I see their faces every night… I can’t sleep. Please… don’t make it worse.”

And of course, Victor swallowed it whole.

He pulled her close, rubbing her shoulder. “Ivy, don’t cry. You did nothing wrong. I’ll take care of this.” Then his eyes snapped to mine, cold and sharp. “Marielle, you’ve gone too far. Throwing lawsuits and tantrums won’t bring them back. They ran into her car, not the other way around. Stop using their deaths as an excuse to play the victim.”

I barely breathed. “You’re defending her?”

Victor scoffed. “She’s trying to live her life. Something you never managed without drama. You’re bitter, Marielle. Bitter she’s younger. Bitter she makes me happy. Bitter she didn’t waste her life like you did.”

I laughed, broken and hollow. “Happy?” I whispered. “You call this happiness? Do you think Grandma—”

“Your grandmother and sister are gone, Marielle. Move on.”

Before I could even react, a sharp voice rang from the crowd.

“Who do you call dead?”