When the farce finally ended, Joel spoke lightly, as if discussing the weather. "Don't worry. Everyone here is a female reporter. Your photos will be censored."
He paused, adjusting his cuffs.
"I'll let you off this time. Do not let it happen again."
All the strength drained from my legs. I didn't spare him another glance. I only wanted to grab my suitcase and board the first plane out of this hell.
But when I returned to the room, my blood ran cold.
The suitcase I had packed lay torn open, its contents strewn across the floor in a chaotic mess. The urn I had carefully hidden away—
Vanished.
The black-and-white memorial photo had been ripped to shreds, the face unrecognizable.
A primal scream tore from my throat. I ran out of the villa like a madwoman.
In the driveway, I found it.
The urn. Shattered. Its contents scattered across the pavement.
A stray dog was lapping at a pile of gray dust.
The nanny stood nearby, pointing at the ash with feigned innocence. "Ms. Henson said it was expired milk powder. She told me to feed it to the dog."
After the press conference, Joel cleaned up the PR disaster and sent me a message.
*Don't worry. I won't let your mistakes affect our son.*