"About withdrawing the lawsuit—have you thought it through?"
No asking if I was okay. No food or water. Her first words were for that pampered murderer she called family.
I forced my head up, grinding my teeth to stop my jaw from trembling.
"I will never withdraw." My voice was raspy but firm. "Bryce will pay for what he did."
Layla crossed her legs. Shadows hid her expression, but the chill in her gaze was unmistakable.
"He's young," she repeated, bored. "He drank too much and hit your mother. That's all. I'll pay compensation—write whatever number you want on that check. Still not enough?"
She leaned forward. "Based on your mother's age—sixty—legal compensation would be a million at most. You're actually profiting from this."
Profiting.
The word hit me like a physical blow. Air caught in my throat. Acid churned in my stomach as cold sweat broke across my skin.
"That was my mother!" I choked out. "The woman who gave birth to me! She's not something you measure with money!"
I slammed my palm against the floor. "Bryce knew he hit someone. He knew, and he still dragged her until she was crushed. That's not an accident—that's murder! Shouldn't he pay for his own crimes?"