My Dad's Ashes and Her Darn Dog

My father died in the line of duty during a confidential assignment and received the highest national honor.

I retrieved his ashes and escorted him home for burial.

As soon as I reached the entrance of the residential area, I collided with a woman.

The urn fell to the ground and injured her dog.

In the next second, her palm struck my face. “You lunatic, you killed my dog! Can you afford to pay with your worthless life? Hand over the urn while kneeling so my dog can rest in peace!”

I stood there in shock. Her dog had run into me without a leash, yet she tried to blame me.

“There are security cameras here. Call the police if there is no other way. The box holds my father’s ashes. Watch your mouth.”

The woman laughed as if she had heard the biggest joke. “He is a nobody. My dog was flown in from France. Can you afford to compensate me? If you know what is good for you, hand over the urn. My hubby is Ethan Stanford, the heir to Stanford Group. Can you afford to offend me?”

I froze. I had no idea my husband had another wife.

Vanessa Summer, the princess of Capital City and my best friend who had been spoiled since childhood, laughed in anger. She stepped in front of me and said in a firm voice, “Who do you think you are? You keep calling people nobodies. Nora Quinton is Ethan Stanford’s legally married wife. Who are you pretending to be?”

When Vanessa revealed my identity, I expected the woman to show a dramatic reaction. She only paused for a moment before sneering. She pulled a marriage certificate from her Hermès bag and tossed it at my feet. “Open your eyes and look. What is on it?”

The photo on the certificate stung my eyes.

Ethan wore a neat suit and smiled gently. The woman beside him was Layla Lewis, the arrogant and domineering woman standing in front of me.

My mind went blank as I stood frozen.

“Do not ask why I carry my marriage certificate. I have seen many women try to climb the social ladder and pretend to be Mrs. Stanford.”

Her gaze shifted to the urn in my arms. Her eyes turned cold. “I only wanted you to compensate my dog with that stupid urn. I did not expect you to be bold enough to pretend to be Mrs. Stanford. You are asking for death.”

She waved her hand, and several bodyguards in black suits surrounded us. “Beat them. Let them learn what happens when they pretend to be Mrs. Stanford.”

“Let us see who dares,” Vanessa shouted, pulling me closer.

We did not have time to react before the tall men closed in.

I held the urn tightly. Vanessa rushed forward and shielded me from most of the blows.

In the chaos, one bodyguard pulled a sharp fruit knife from his pocket and slashed Vanessa’s arm.

“Ah!” Vanessa