If he wasn't threatening suicide for attention, he was creating messes for her to clean up. She'd pay lip service to discipline—grow up, Bryce—yet never failed to rush to his side the moment he beckoned.
Every single time, I was the one left behind.
And every single time, she'd smooth it over with the same excuses.
"He's been an orphan since childhood. I raised him—I have to be responsible."
"He's arrogant, yes, but he has a good heart. We need to be tolerant."
I'd swallowed those excuses for years. But this time, his "arrogance" had killed my mother in a hit-and-run—just to stop my wedding to Layla.
I'd always believed she possessed a basic moral compass when it came to life and death. I was wrong. Her heart didn't lean toward justice. It belonged entirely to Bryce Gilbert.
Staring at the surveillance footage—evidence of my mother's death—pressure built behind my eyes until my vision blurred.
"I agree," I whispered. The words tasted like ash. "I'll withdraw the lawsuit."
Delight sparked in her eyes. The smile that bloomed was almost grotesque.
"I knew you'd be reasonable." Her voice softened. "Let's hold the wedding in seven days. We'll make it grand."
I neither nodded nor shook my head. Numbness spread through me as I took the pen. Every stroke felt like a blade carving out a piece of my soul.
That night, Bryce took to social media to celebrate his freedom.
His feed was a parade of excess—a party where luxury gifts flowed like water. The centerpiece: a vintage watch worth three million dollars, a prize from Layla's charity gala last month.
The caption read: Thanks to my dearest Sister Layla for giving me a second life.
And there, at the top of the likes—Layla's profile.
In eight years of marriage, she'd never liked a single post of mine. Yet she stalked Bryce's feed with religious devotion, never missing an update.
"He's young and cares about appearances," she'd told me once. "If I don't like his posts, he throws a tantrum."
I had never thrown a tantrum. Never demanded her attention. I had simply been "sensible."
Now my mother was dead at Bryce's hands, and Layla was celebrating her killer's new lease on life.
I stood by the window, city lights blurring into cold neon streaks. After a long silence, I pulled out my phone and dialed the hospital.
"I want to schedule my brain surgery."