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.