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.

I turned to the cabinet behind me, my gaze landing on a small figurine. Hidden inside was a USB drive.

It contained a digital archive of our history—every memory I had cherished. I had planned to give it to Layla at the wedding, a testament to our journey.

But that gift would never be delivered.

Just like the wedding that had been aborted halfway through, our story would have no second half.

I held the funeral for Mom. The mourning hall was awash in the scent of gardenias, her favorite flower.

The solemn atmosphere shattered when Layla walked in, holding Bryce's hand. The audacity of it made my blood run cold. As I watched, Bryce stepped forward, picked up three sticks of incense, and moved toward the burner as if he had every right to pay respects.

"Who gave you permission to be here?"

I intercepted him, sweeping my hand down to knock the incense from his grip.

The lit sticks scattered. A few flakes of hot ash landed on the back of Bryce's hand. He shrieked, instantly diving behind Layla for protection.

"Sis... it hurts! It hurts so much!"

Layla examined the faint red mark on his skin, her eyes flashing with misplaced indignation.

"He only came to offer incense, Brandon. Was that really necessary?"

Bryce peered out from behind her, his eyes already swimming with practiced tears. He reached out and grabbed my hand with a look of utter devastation.

"Brandon, I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you both a gift at the wedding. I really didn't know it would end like this! Sis has already punished me. I know I was wrong."

Bryce had mastered the art of playing the victim, and Layla was his eternal, willing audience. In the past, I had endured his theatrics for her sake.

But I was done enduring.

"Layla, I will say this once," I said, my voice low and dangerously even. "Get him out of here."

A murmur rippled through the guests. Everyone present knew the truth: Bryce was the one who had run my mother down. Fingers pointed; whispers of disgust circulated the room.

Hearing the crowd turn against him, the mask of the aggrieved child slipped from Bryce's face. His expression twisted into a sneer.

"She was just an old woman," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Even if I hadn't hit her, she would have died of old age eventually! If Sis hadn't made me come here to burn incense, do you think I'd bother with this place?"

He strode to the altar. Before anyone could react, his hands clamped around my mother's urn.

"You won't let me burn incense? Fine." He lifted the vessel high above his head, a manic glint in his eyes. "Then no one burns anything!"

"Don't!"

My heart slammed against my ribs. I lunged forward, but I was too late.

Crash.

The sound was sickeningly crisp. The ceramic shattered against the stone floor, sending a cloud of gray dust into the air.

A deathly silence fell over the hall. The guests froze, horror etched on their faces.

A stinging heat pricked behind my eyes and nose. I forced the tears back, dropping to my knees. Desperation clawed at my throat as I frantically scooped up the ashes with my bare hands, ignoring the sharp shards biting into my skin.

Above me, Bryce went on a rampage. He kicked over the flower arrangements and tore down the banners, destroying the memorial hall like a madman.

My mother's funeral was ruined.

I gathered what little remained of her ashes, clutching them to my chest as I walked out of the hall. Layla chased after me, her heels clicking rapidly on the pavement.

"Brandon, wait! Bryce just has a bad temper. He can't stand it when people talk about him behind his back. He went a little too far this time, I admit," she said, breathless. "Don't worry. I'll pay for another funeral. I'll arrange everything..."

Her words, meant to soothe, only churned the bile in my stomach.

Layla grabbed my arm to stop me. I looked down at her hand, then at her face.

"No need."

I pushed her hand away. I didn't have the energy to fight them anymore. I just wanted to be away from their poison.

Layla stared at her empty hand, a flicker of unease tightening her chest.

I hadn't taken more than a few steps away from the mourning hall when my phone vibrated. It was the caregiver from the hospital.

"Mr. Delgado... your father's oxygen tube... it was pulled out."

The world tilted. The sentence struck me with the force of a physical blow.

Clutching the remnants of my mother's ashes, I raced to the hospital.

When I arrived, it was too late. A white sheet had already been drawn over my father's body.

"Who did this?" My voice was a broken rasp, trembling with rage so profound it felt like it would tear me apart. "Who the hell did this? I told you to guard this room! How did someone get in?"

After Layla had used my father's life as leverage, I had replaced all the staff and security. I thought I had made him safe.

The caregiver looked down, trembling.

"It was... it was Young Master Gilbert," she stammered. "He came in and said your father was wasting medical resources. He claimed to hold the hospital shares... and ordered the rescue efforts to stop."

"He owns shares in this hospital. One word from him, and we're finished."

The caregiver dropped to her knees, trembling, terrified of being held accountable.

"Mr. Delgado, please. Don't fight him."

Her pleas barely registered. My mind was stuck on loop: Bryce making a scene at the mourning hall, mocking the dead. A dark, suffocating rage expanded in my chest, impossible to suppress.

I took a taxi back to the villa. The moment I stepped out, thumping bass assaulted my ears. Laughter and music spilled from the house where I was supposed to be grieving.

"If Brandon's old man hadn't saved Sis, she never would've looked at him."

"I won't let her marry anyone else. She's mine!"

"First marriage, his mom dies. Second marriage, his dad dies. Let's see if he has the guts to try for a third!"

Bryce's arrogant voice scraped against my sanity like a jagged blade.

I kicked the front door open. Strode to the stereo. Cut the power. The silence was deafening.

I didn't say a word. Just walked up to Bryce and backhanded him across the face.

Smack.

He stumbled back, clutching his cheek. His delicate features twisted into disbelief.

"You hit me? No one has ever dared to touch me!"

He screamed for his friends. Within seconds, a swarm of bodies tackled me, pinning my arms to the floor.

"So your parents are dead. Big deal," Bryce spat, standing over me. "Why act like it's the end of the world? Haven't I suffered enough too?"

He ground his heel into the back of my hand, twisting until I couldn't stifle a cry.

"I can kill your parents, and I can kill you too! You're trash, Brandon. How much is a life like yours even worth?"

Someone restarted the music. Bryce and his cronies treated me like a punching bag, kicks raining down on my ribs.

A blade flashed. Sharp sting in my arm. Blood welled up. The sight of it only excited Bryce more.

"You'll pay for this," I choked out. "I swear you will."

"Pay?"

Bryce laughed, shaking his head. He signaled his men to drag me toward the storage closet.

"Open your eyes, Brandon. Let's see who really pays."

They shoved me into the cramped room and taped my mouth shut. Just as I tensed against the ropes, the front door opened.

Layla walked in. She strode straight toward Bryce, ignoring the chaos, her brow furrowing at the mark on his cheek.

"What happened to your face?"

Bryce glanced back at the closet where I was bound. A smirk bloomed on his lips.

"You always find trouble, don't you?" Layla sighed, tapping his nose playfully. "Send everyone home. Brandon will be upset if he comes back to this mess."

Bryce wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck as he ordered the guests to leave. His hands didn't just hold her—they roamed, rubbing against her with a familiarity that made my stomach turn.

"Sis..."

"Come with me."

I watched Layla's gaze. Her usually cold, composed eyes were hazy with lust.

They pushed the storage room door open. Layla didn't even look at me. She slammed Bryce against the wall, gripping his shoulders.

Her voice dropped to a husky whisper—a tenderness I'd never heard in eight years together.

"Bryce, you shouldn't tempt me."

"You know we can't. Society wouldn't understand. There's no future for us."

I stared, paralyzed. My nails dug into my palms until the skin broke.

Eight years with Layla. The only intimacy we ever shared was when she was drunk, and even then, I had to beg.

I used to think she just wasn't interested in sex.

Now I knew the truth. She was plenty interested—just not with me.

"I don't care," Bryce murmured. "I'm willing to be your little pet forever."

He kissed her. Not a chaste peck—a hungry, desperate collision. Their bodies tangled, grinding against the wall, feet from where I sat bound and bleeding.

I squeezed my eyes shut. The sounds filled the room. Physical pain faded, replaced by my heart shattering into dust.