A Dog Instead of His Son

Shaun was already at the airport when I landed. The moment he saw the urn in my hands, his throat tightened.

It was a long, silent drive before he finally said, "Don't worry. I won't let Peter get away with this."

I nodded.

Shaun took me to his villa, where I planned to crash for the night before scattering Yule's ashes in the ocean the next day.

But early the next morning, shouting from downstairs jolted me awake. A man's voice—sharp and furious—argued with one of the household staff.

I peeked out the window. It was Peter.

He was at the door, shouting at the staff member who blocked his way. "Tell Freya to come out!"

The staff didn't budge. "Our employer made it clear—you're not allowed in. Leave."

Peter sneered, refusing to back down. "I'm here to see my wife! Do I need your boss's permission for that?!"

Then, as if on cue, he turned and yelled at the house, "Freya! I know you're in there! Did you come all this way to seduce another man? No shame at all, huh? Get out here and bring my son with you!"

By now, neighbors were gathering to watch the scene. My stomach twisted. The last thing I wanted was to drag Shaun into this mess.

I threw on some clothes, ready to go downstairs, but Shaun grabbed my arm. "Freya, you don't have to deal with him."

I sighed. "We're still married. I have to end this."

The second I opened the door, Peter glared at me. "Finally decided to show yourself? Done fooling around with some guy?"

My blood boiled. After everything he'd done, this was what he had the nerve to say?

I didn't think—I just slapped him. Hard. "How did you even find me?"

Peter flinched, his face turning red, but he recovered fast, smirking as he laughed under his breath. "Don't forget—I bought the phone you're using. I can track you wherever you go."

Then his gaze flicked past me to the house. "Where's Yule? Bring him out, and let's go home."

That's when Tracey stepped out of a car parked nearby, wearing her usual fake, doe-eyed expression. "Peter, let it go," she said softly. "I don't blame Yule for what happened."

Peter whipped around, pointing a finger at me. "If Yule did something wrong, he needs to take responsibility! I won't let my son grow up as undisciplined as his mother!"

Before I could react, Shaun stormed forward. He grabbed Peter by the collar and slammed a fist into his face. Blood trickled from Peter's mouth as he staggered back.

"Yule is dead!" Shaun thundered. "Are you even human? You should be here to apologize to Freya, but no—you bring your mistress to humiliate her? You don't deserve to call yourself a man!"

Peter tilted his head, stunned by the punch, before recovering enough to sneer, "And who the hell are you to hit me?" His face twisted as if a lightbulb flicked on. "Oh, I get it. You're the guy Freya's been sneaking around with! And now you're cursing my son to be dead?!"

I shoved myself between them, forcing them apart. "This is my brother, Shaun," I snapped.

Peter froze, his face flickering with confusion before it hit him. His jaw dropped. "Wait—Shaun Wayne? CEO of Wayne Corp?!"

Before I could answer, the housekeeper approached with Yule's urn in her hands. "Ms. Wayne," she said softly, "it's time."

I took the urn, my grip firm as I turned to Peter. My voice was steady. "Yule is right here. If you still have any shred of decency as a father, come with us."

Peter's eyes locked on the urn like he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. He shook his head. "Ridiculous! That's impossible! You can fool everyone else with this garbage, but not me!"

I started walking toward the car, speaking without looking back. "The funeral home texted you that night. If you don't believe me, check your phone."

Panic flickered across Peter's face as he pulled out his phone. His anger drained away, replaced by an unsteady uncertainty.

Tracey peeked at his screen, gasping as she covered her mouth. "But I've seen news stories before... those kinds of texts can be faked."

I ignored them both, numb, and pulled out my phone. Unblocking Peter temporarily, I sent him a video—the last video I'd ever taken of Yule.

The clip played. Yule, tiny and pale, clutched the Santa toy the doctor had given him. His small hands went limp, his eyes closing for the last time.

Peter's phone slipped from his fingers as he dropped to his knees, shaking. Then, like a man possessed, he staggered up and lunged at me, reaching for the urn.

I didn't flinch. I kicked him back, hard, and turned to follow Shaun to the car.

We drove in silence toward the ocean.

Peter, desperate and unhinged, stumbled after us, catching up just as I prepared to scatter Yule's ashes into the waves. His eyes were wild, bloodshot. He screamed, "No! You can't scatter my son's ashes!"

I turned to him, my voice icy. "The ocean's depth will match the weight of your sins, Peter. I want you to live every second of your life knowing this is all your fault."