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.
