“No,” he said calmly. “You were auditioning for my disappointment. As usual.”
She exhaled sharply and walked away.
We drove to the estate in silence.
I barely spoke.
Rick didn’t push.
In the bedroom, I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself in that dress.
I didn’t look beautiful.
I looked arranged. Expensive.
Temporary.
The door opened softly behind me.
Rick stepped inside, closed it, and the room fell quiet.
Then he said:
“Layla, now that you’re my wife… I can finally tell you the truth. It’s too late to walk away.”
My hands went cold.
“Rick… what does that mean?”
He looked at me. “It means you were wrong about why I asked you.”
I turned fully toward him. “Then tell me.”
He didn’t move closer.
“I am dying, Layla.”
“What?”
“My heart. Maybe months. A year, if the Lord is feeling theatrical.”
I gripped the back of a chair. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because,” he said quietly, “my family has spent years circling my death like shoppers outside a store. Last spring, my own son tried to have me declared mentally diminished.”
I stared at him. “Your own son?”
“Yes. David.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything.”
He nodded toward a folder on the bedside table. “Open it.”
I did.
