The day Bryce Gilbert returned from abroad marked the end of my endurance.
I stared into Layla's pitch-black eyes, searching for any trace of the woman I once knew. "Have you forgotten my father is in that vegetative state because he saved you?"
My voice cracked. "And now—for him—you're threatening to pull the plug?"
A violent tremor ran through me. Even with her cruelty laid bare, I couldn't comprehend that she would sink this low to protect Bryce.
Layla closed her eyes and sighed, as if she were the aggrieved party.
"I've already punished him. He knows he was wrong." Her tone was dismissive. "We're family, Brandon. No need to drag this through court and become a laughingstock."
I knew what her "punishment" meant. Ground him for a few days. Freeze his credit cards. A farce.
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."
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.
I stood by the window, city lights blurring into cold neon streaks. After a long silence, I pulled out my phone and dialed the hospital.
"I want to schedule my brain surgery."
The tumor had been discovered shortly after my father's coma. For years, Layla had blocked the procedure, forcing me to manage it conservatively.
The surgery carried a high risk of amnesia. She'd claimed she couldn't bear the thought of me forgetting her. And because I was a fool who loved her more than my own life, I'd endured the headaches and seizures, terrified of losing my memories of her.
I had fought until my body convulsed, refusing to surrender.
But now, that surgery wasn't a threat. It was salvation.
I didn't just accept the risk of forgetting Layla Matthews.
I prayed for it.
