So, he settled into the role of the "best friend," biding his time.
He never imagined that Yedda and I would fall in love and eventually get married.
Unable to let it go, he saw me as a thorn in his side, always encouraging Yedda to argue with me or stirring up trouble so he could swoop in and play the hero.
I crushed the cigarette underfoot and was about to call the photographer when the screech of brakes echoed behind me.
I turned to see several men dismounting from motorcycles, each wielding a club.
I recognized them—Raymond's lowlife friends.
Their faces were full of malice.
"You didn't even run after hitting my buddy? Standing here like you're waiting to die?"
I reached for my phone to call the police, but they knocked it out of my hand and dragged me into a nearby alley.
As they hauled me into the shadows, I saw Raymond and Yedda strolling toward us, side by side.
Yedda looked conflicted, but the disappointment was written all over her face.
"Boyce, my mom treated you like her own son. If you didn't want to take care of her, fine. But to blame me? And then to hit Raymond?
"You've really let me down."
The men held me firmly as Raymond stepped forward and punched me in the face.