"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.