For eight years, I'd watched this cycle repeat until it sickened me. Whenever Bryce returned, my time with Layla was borrowed. One call from him and she'd vanish.
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."