All the blood in Coleen's body seemed to rush backward. Her vision blurred as she stumbled to her feet and ran out the door.
Behind her, Bruce's shocked gaze lingered—but she didn't look back.
By the time she reached the lobby downstairs, the entrance was already swarming with reporters.
They descended on her like vultures scenting fresh blood, microphones shoved in her face, flashes exploding like gunfire.
"Dr. Vega! Your psychology clinic has been reported and temporarily shut down! There are also accusations online claiming your master's thesis was plagiarized—do you have any comments?"
"I didn't plagiarize!"
She pushed through the crowd, her grief raw and blinding. Her father was gone—she couldn't think, couldn't breathe—she just needed to see him one last time.
"Move!"
Her shout was sharp, but it was swallowed by the noise around her.
"Ms. Vega, please respond to the allegations!"
The reporters pressed closer, reading comments from their live broadcast like feeding off her misery.
"She could've stayed a rich wife, but no—she had to compete for patients. Guess mental illness is just her way of making money!"
"Plagiarized her thesis, used her family's influence to get her degree—typical spoiled socialite!"
Just then, Bruce arrived. He didn't expect that his father-in-law's health would be that poor. Nonetheless, he looked at Coleen calmly.
"Coleen," he said coolly, taking her arm. "He's gone. You can't bring him back. Right now, you need to compose yourself and maintain a positive image for the media. Otherwise, Sandoval Group's stock will take a hit."
"Don't worry, I'll handle your father's funeral arrangements."
Coleen stared at him, disbelief and heartbreak twisting together.
"He's my father. He just died, and you want me to smile for the cameras instead of saying goodbye?"
"I visited him last night," Her voice trembled, "He told me he regretted how he treated you. He asked me to apologize on his behalf."
"For the sake of our thirteen years, Bruce," she choked out. "I'm begging you—turn on the security system. Let me see my father one last time."
His hand hesitated. For a moment, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a faint hope she clung to. But before he could answer, Emily came rushing through the crowd.
"Bruce, take Madam away first! I'll handle the reporters, don't worry about me—ah!"
Her words ended in a cry as the reporters shoved her to the ground.
"Who are you? We want Coleen! Let her explain herself!"
Bruce's grip shifted direction. In Coleen's disbelieving gaze, he turned from her—and bent down to help Emily up.
"Coleen can handle her own mess," he said curtly. "You're hurt. We're going to the hospital."
And just like that, he led Emily away without looking back.
They left Coleen standing alone—surrounded by cameras, microphones, and sneering questions.
She endured every jab, every cruel laugh, until the crowd finally dispersed, satisfied with their footage.
Only then did she stagger out of the building, hail a cab, and race toward the hospital.
She ran the entire way to her father's ward—one shoe lost somewhere in the chaos, hair tangled, hands shaking. People stared as she passed, but she saw none of it.
At the ward door, she caught a nurse rushing by.
"Where's the patient in this room?" she demanded, her voice trembling.
The nurse frowned.
"Oh, he's been cremated. He passed away this morning, and since the beds are full, we went ahead with the cremation after getting the family's consent."
The nurse hesitated, then added softly, "Strange, though... I've worked here for years, and I've never seen anyone cremated that fast."
Realizing she'd said too much, the nurse stopped abruptly and pointed toward another ward. "The family member who signed the papers is there."
Coleen turned—and through the half-open door, she saw him.
Bruce.
Carefully tending to Emily's scraped knees, his movements gentle, intimate.
The air between them glowed with quiet warmth.
Coleen closed her eyes. Suddenly, she didn't feel anger anymore. Not even sorrow. Just... emptiness.
Leaning against the wall, she pulled out her phone.
A flight reminder flashed—tomorrow morning. Then, a message from her clinic assistant popped up.
[Miss Coleen, we'll have to close the clinic for two weeks. By the way, someone left flowers for you—I think they meant something. There's a note.]
She opened the photo.
It was a bouquet of roses, and tucked inside, a card.
The handwriting was faint but familiar, like a ghost from thirteen years ago. [I, Bruce Sandoval, vows to share joy and sorrow with Emily Olivar for the rest of my life.]
Coleen's lips curved into the faintest, brittle smile. Her fingers moved across the screen.
[Throw it away. No one wants it.]
Suddenly, the ward door swung open.
Emily stood there, smiling sweetly as she clutched a folder in her hands.
"Madam," she said gently, "this should be the last time I call you that."
She handed over the folder—it was the divorce agreement.
"Mr. Sandoval—oh, I mean, Bruce has agreed to the divorce."
