At the station, I called Susan, my father’s trusted lawyer. I told her to slip the divorce agreement into the documents and trick Victoria into signing.
Seven days later, I was finally released. That day happened to be the anniversary of our son’s death.
Every year, Victoria and I went together to his grave. Today, I set aside all resentment. I only wanted our son to see that his mother had not forgotten him.
But the maid whispered that Victoria hadn’t come home in a week—she had been staying with Andrew.
I called her. Instead, Andrew answered, his voice venomous.
“You bastard! What do you want with my woman?!”
I was about to curse him when Susan arrived, holding the signed divorce papers. Victoria had already signed. We were no longer bound. There was no point in arguing.
“Today is the anniversary of her son’s death,” I said coldly. “If you want to tell her, do it. If not, forget it.”
Enraged, Andrew opened a video call.
“See this? Victoria’s son is alive and well. If you dare curse our child again, I’ll beat you to death!”