At my daughter's funeral, my husband's childhood best friend, Lilian Graham, had the audacity to dress my little girl like a pet dog. ​ A surge of rage exploded in my chest, and without thinking, I stepped forward and slapped Lilian hard across the face. ​ That night, my husband, Warren Monroe, never came home, but early the next morning, he finally appeared in front of me. ​ Instead of mourning our daughter, the first thing he did was point a finger at me and accuse me of nearly ruining Lilian's face. ​ I stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend how our daughter was dead, yet he didn't seem to care at all. ​ Instead, he rushed over to defend his precious childhood best friend and demand justice on her behalf. ​ My anger boiled over, and I raised my hand, slapping him just as hard across the face. ​ Late that night, Warren approached me again, his voice gentle and his expression seemingly full of remorse. ​ "I'm sorry," he said softly as he handed me a glass of warm milk. ​ Believing him, I drank it, and within moments, a crushing wave of exhaustion swept over me, and I fell into a deep sleep. ​ When I opened my eyes again, I found myself tied to a tree inside Greenhaven Memorial Park, and panic shot through me. ​ Not far away, Warren and Lilian were directing several workers as they dug up my daughter's grave. ​ I fought desperately against the ropes, screaming for them to stop, but Warren merely looked at me with disgust and sneered coldly. ​ "You're so jealous it's pathetic," he spat. "You even used your own daughter to stir up trouble and build a fake grave here. You're disgusting." ​ The moment I realized they had no intention of stopping, my heart turned cold. With trembling fingers, I activated the voice dial on my phone and called a saved number. ​ "You once promised me that if anyone ever hurt my daughter or me, you'd kill them." ​ My grip tightened around the phone. ​ "Now," I said quietly, "it's time for you to keep that promise."