"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.

Eight years. I'd spent eight years believing in a love that was nothing but a cover-up. I was a fig leaf—a convenient shield to hide someone else's sins.

"Sis, I pulled the plug on Brandon's dad."

Bryce lay nestled in Layla's arms, practically purring as he confessed.

I'd expected a reaction—shock, horror, maybe a flicker of morality. Instead, her response hit me like ice water.

"You really can't go a moment without stirring up trouble, can you?" She sighed, her tone devoid of blame, dripping with helpless indulgence. "Forget it. I'll handle Brandon."

In her eyes, murder was just another one of Bryce's mischievous habits.

He smiled, swore he wouldn't do it again, then nuzzled into her neck, demanding more attention.

The night stretched on, agonizingly slow.

When the lights flickered back on, Bryce stood in a thin undershirt, the collar loose enough to reveal fresh red marks on his neck—evidence of their intimacy.

"You heard that, right?" He sneered down at me. "To her, your parents' deaths are just a minor inconvenience. A little mess I made. Tell me, Brandon—how do you plan to fight me now?"

I stayed silent. Didn't move.

Bored by my lack of reaction, he cursed and stormed out.

The moment the door clicked shut, I pulled out my phone and sent the recording to my lawyer.

I will see Bryce Gilbert behind bars.

My lawyer's reply came instantly. This is why I advised patience. This recording is the nail in the coffin. We have him.

I typed back: Send the divorce papers to Layla's office. Immediately.

After arranging my father's funeral, I sat on a bench outside the operating room, waiting for my name.

As I reviewed the indictment, my phone lit up. Layla.

"The hospital admitted negligence regarding your father," she said smoothly. "I've already held them accountable. We'll hold a joint funeral for your parents. Once I finish up here, I'll come pick you up."

"Okay," I answered calmly, then moved to hang up.

Something in my tone unsettled her. Panic crept into her voice. "Where are you?"

I let out a dry chuckle.

"I'm at the hospital, Layla."

"Waiting for my brain tumor surgery."

A sharp intake of breath. The clatter of a dropped phone. I powered off my device and walked into the operating room.

Just wait. When I wake up, we settle every debt.

Layla stared at her phone, listening to the disconnected tone. She redialed frantically—straight to voicemail.

She grabbed her coat and bolted for the door.

She nearly collided with her assistant in the hallway. "Not now!" she snapped. "I have an emergency."

He hesitated, holding out a document. "CEO Matthews... this is urgent. It's a divorce agreement from Mr. Delgado."

Layla froze. Her gaze locked onto the black-and-white document.

The word Divorce stung like acid.