Ashes on the Floor, Love Too Late

Philippa's POV

The day I died, Roland was lost in the sheets with his adoptive sister, Lavinia.

When the hospital called with the death notice, he scoffed. It was just a routine blood draw—how could anyone die from that? He was convinced I was throwing another tantrum, playing the victim just to get his attention.

The day he picked up my ashes, he knocked the wooden urn to the floor himself. He ground my remains into the marble with his expensive leather shoes, coldly announcing that he was going to marry Lavinia in a grand ceremony—the very wedding I had begged for and was denied my entire life.

It wasn't until the eve of the wedding that his assistant, Desmond, burst into his office, pale and trembling.

"Sir, it's bad... We pulled the hospital’s security footage. And... we have the Mrs.’s autopsy report."

——

I floated in mid-air, staring down at the pale, lifeless corpse on the hospital bed.

It was me.

Years of forced, relentless blood transfusions for Lavinia had completely ravaged my body. My organs had failed, and I had slipped away in the cold, sterile room.

Outside the door, the nurse held the phone, her voice shaking like a leaf in the wind. "Mr. Ashford... I’m so sorry to disturb you, but Ms. Boone... she didn't make it. She's been pronounced dead."

The other end of the line went dead silent for a second, followed by a sudden, breathless moan.

"Roland... gentler..." It was Lavinia's voice.

My husband—the ruthless CEO of the Ashford Group—was currently wrapping himself around his adoptive sister.

Roland’s deep, indifferent voice came through the receiver, laced with bitter mockery. "Dead? Is your hospital helping her stage her little plays now?"

"No, Mr. Ashford, Ms. Boone is truly—" The nurse was on the verge of tears.

"Enough," Roland snapped impatiently. "Losing a little blood doesn't kill anyone. Tell Philippa that if she thinks this cheap trick will force me back to her, she’s dead wrong."

The nurse held the charts with trembling hands. "We wouldn't joke about this, sir. The gurney is already here to take her to the morgue. How would you like us to handle the body?"

"If she’s dead, cremate her," Roland sneered. "Don't let her sit there and rot. Call me when you have the ashes."

The line went dead.

My soul hovered beneath the ceiling, watching helplessly as my cold body was zipped into a black body bag. He didn't even bother to come and check. He had signed away my coordinates to the fire without a single glance.

Two hours later, in the waiting room of the crematorium.

Sal, the crematorium worker, clutched my cheap wooden urn, sweating profusely as he dialed Roland’s number.

"Mr. Ashford, the cremation is complete..."

"Shut up. I’ll be right there."

Barely twenty minutes later, the door was kicked open.

Roland walked in, his arm wrapped tightly around Lavinia. Their clothes were slightly disheveled, and Lavinia’s neck bore fresh, red marks from their recent session.

"Where are the ashes?" Roland leaned against the doorframe, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a cup of coffee.

Sal shakily presented the small wooden box with both hands. "This is Ms. Boone’s..."

Roland took it, tossing it lightly in his hand. His eyes filled with derision. "What’s this? You swept up some stranger’s dust from the floor and thought you could fool me?" He smirked at Lavinia. "I have to admit, she hired a decent actor this time."

Sal waved his hands in panic. "It’s really her! The coroner verified it! This is definitely your wife's ashes!"

Roland stared at the box for a moment, then let out a sharp, cruel laugh. "Is that so? Then I’ll believe you just this once."

In the next split second, he opened his hand.

The wooden box crashed onto the hard marble floor, instantly shattering into splinters.

A cloud of grayish-white ash exploded outward, scattering across the floor.

"Ah!" Sal screamed in horror. "What are you doing!"

I hovered powerlessly above the dust. Those were my bones, my flesh, the final physical trace of my existence on this earth.

A sadistic grin spread across Roland’s face. "Oops. My hand slipped."

Despite his mock apology, his heavy leather shoes stepped right into the pile. He twisted his heel, grinding my ashes into the dirt, over and over again.

The grating sound felt like it was crushing my actual soul.

A wave of profound despair washed over me. I wanted to scream, to push him away, but my translucent hands only swept through his body.

"Philippa, you want to play dead? Let’s see how long you can hold your breath," he sneered into the empty room. "Get out here. Don't make me sweep this garbage down the drain."

He was entirely convinced this was just a pathetic, elaborate stunt.

Staring at his hateful face, I remembered how much he had despised me when Grandmother Mabel first forced us together. Later, our relationship had actually started to heal. He had even canceled major board meetings just to spend time with me.

Until Lavinia came back. Until the night Grandmother Mabel died. Until those photos of me and Graham "disheveled" in an apartment were sent to his phone.

He had instantly turned back into the monster who wished I would rot in hell.

I couldn't help but wonder with a bitter pang: if he knew I was truly gone, would he feel even a shred of regret?

Lavinia seemed startled by the mess. She tugged at Roland’s sleeve, her voice dripping with innocence. "Roland... what if... what if this really is Philippa's ashes?"