Eight years. I'd spent eight years believing in a love that was nothing but a cover-up. I was a fig leaf—a convenient shield to hide someone else's sins.
"Sis, I pulled the plug on Brandon's dad."
Bryce lay nestled in Layla's arms, practically purring as he confessed.
I'd expected a reaction—shock, horror, maybe a flicker of morality. Instead, her response hit me like ice water.
"You really can't go a moment without stirring up trouble, can you?" She sighed, her tone devoid of blame, dripping with helpless indulgence. "Forget it. I'll handle Brandon."
In her eyes, murder was just another one of Bryce's mischievous habits.
He smiled, swore he wouldn't do it again, then nuzzled into her neck, demanding more attention.
The night stretched on, agonizingly slow.
When the lights flickered back on, Bryce stood in a thin undershirt, the collar loose enough to reveal fresh red marks on his neck—evidence of their intimacy.
"You heard that, right?" He sneered down at me. "To her, your parents' deaths are just a minor inconvenience. A little mess I made. Tell me, Brandon—how do you plan to fight me now?"
I stayed silent. Didn't move.
Bored by my lack of reaction, he cursed and stormed out.
The moment the door clicked shut, I pulled out my phone and sent the recording to my lawyer.
I will see Bryce Gilbert behind bars.
My lawyer's reply came instantly. This is why I advised patience. This recording is the nail in the coffin. We have him.
I typed back: Send the divorce papers to Layla's office. Immediately.
After arranging my father's funeral, I sat on a bench outside the operating room, waiting for my name.
As I reviewed the indictment, my phone lit up. Layla.
"The hospital admitted negligence regarding your father," she said smoothly. "I've already held them accountable. We'll hold a joint funeral for your parents. Once I finish up here, I'll come pick you up."
"Okay," I answered calmly, then moved to hang up.
Something in my tone unsettled her. Panic crept into her voice. "Where are you?"
I let out a dry chuckle.
"I'm at the hospital, Layla."
"Waiting for my brain tumor surgery."
A sharp intake of breath. The clatter of a dropped phone. I powered off my device and walked into the operating room.
Just wait. When I wake up, we settle every debt.
Layla stared at her phone, listening to the disconnected tone. She redialed frantically—straight to voicemail.