Somewhere in that haze, I called Victor.
I wanted to tell him our daughter was gone.
I wanted him to see Talia one last time.
First call—rejected.
Second call—rejected.
The third time, my phone buzzed with a text notification.
Victor: Stop calling to harass me. Talk to my lawyer if you have something to say. When you've come to your senses, meet me at the county clerk's office.
I stared at those cold words until my eyes burned dry. Not a single tear fell.
I typed back: Fine. Monday. County clerk's office. I'll be there.
This time, he replied instantly—a voice message.
I pressed play. His tone was mocking, impatient.
"Odette, you'd better not be stalling. If you stand me up, I have ways to make you regret it."
I didn't respond. I just turned off my phone.
The days that followed passed in a blur. I drifted through the empty villa like a ghost.
The funeral was simple—just a few bouquets of lilies, Talia's favorite flower.
I knelt before her casket, burning paper offerings through the endless nights.
Victor never came.
Not a single text asking what happened. Not one phone call.
Nothing.
On the day of the burial, the sharp click of heels echoed from outside the funeral home.
Crisp. Grating.
I looked up.