My Ex-Wife's Deadly Secret

On the day I married Layla Matthews, my mother was run over and killed.

The hit-and-run driver was Bryce Gilbertthe young heir Layla had raised herself.

In the traffic footage released by police, Bryce's Maybach dragged my mother for miles. By the time he stopped, white bone gleamed through torn flesh.

"This time, he went too far. Whatever you decide, I'll stand by you."

In eight years together, it was the first time Layla had ever taken my side.

Empowered by her support, I filed charges against Bryce Gilbert for intentional homicide.

But the night before the trial, Layla threw a blank check at me and demanded I withdraw.

"Bryce is young. He doesn't understand consequences. Boys make mistakesI've already punished him." Her voice was dismissive. "Prison will ruin his entire life."

"He killed someone, Layla!"

She wouldn't listen.

To ensure I missed court, she had me locked in the basement. I was already weak, and three days in the damp cold without food nearly broke me.

In that darkness, the truth finally crystallized: in Layla's world, I didn't exist. I never had.

After three days, the heavy door creaked open. Layla stepped into the dim light.

"About withdrawing the lawsuithave you thought it through?"

No asking if I was okay. No food or water. Her first words were for that pampered murderer she called family.

I forced my head up, grinding my teeth to stop my jaw from trembling.

"I will never withdraw." My voice was raspy but firm. "Bryce will pay for what he did."

Layla crossed her legs. Shadows hid her expression, but the chill in her gaze was unmistakable.

"He's young," she repeated, bored. "He drank too much and hit your mother. That's all. I'll pay compensationwrite whatever number you want on that check. Still not enough?"

She leaned forward. "Based on your mother's agesixtylegal compensation would be a million at most. You're actually profiting from this."

Profiting.

The word hit me like a physical blow. Air caught in my throat. Acid churned in my stomach as cold sweat broke across my skin.

"That was my mother!" I choked out. "The woman who gave birth to me! She's not something you measure with money!"

I slammed my palm against the floor. "Bryce knew he hit someone. He knew, and he still dragged her until she was crushed. That's not an accidentthat's murder! Shouldn't he pay for his own crimes?"

Layla's brows drew tight. Her patience had evaporated.

"One last chance."

She signaled her assistant, who stepped forward and held a tablet to my face.

On the screen: my father's hospital room. He'd been in a vegetative state for years, motionless in his bed. But he wasn't alone.

A figure stood over him, scissors poised directly above his oxygen tube.

"Withdraw the lawsuit, or keep your father alive." Layla's voice was ice. "Choose."

Blood surged to my skull. I screamed and lunged forward, but her bodyguards pinned me to the cold floor.

"Weigh your options," she said, looking down at me. "Do you really want to destroy everything you have for the sake of a dead woman?"

Her words cut deeper than any blade.

Years ago, when Layla had just taken over the Matthews empire, her iron-fisted leadership made dangerous enemies. She was kidnapped during a trade conference.

My father was the lead officer on that case.

In the moment between life and death, he took a bullet for her. He saved her life.

Out of guilt and gratitude, Layla brought my mother and me into her home and covered all my father's medical expenses. For five years, she gave me the best care imaginable. In that closeness, we developed feelings for each other.

The year I graduated, Layla declared her love at the ceremony. In front of the entire school, she promised me the happiest life in the world.

In the end, she broke that promise.

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 nowfor himyou'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 disciplinegrow up, Bryceyet 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 himI 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-runjust 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 footageevidence of my mother's deathpressure 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 excessa 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 likesLayla'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 historyevery 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 herthey 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 whispera 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 interestedjust not with me.

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

He kissed her. Not a chaste pecka 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 leafa 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 reactionshock, 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 neckevidence 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, Brandonhow 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 franticallystraight 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.