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.
Inside were documents—transfers, legal drafts, handwritten notes.
Unsent donations. Employees quietly pushed out. Violet’s mother’s hospital bills—paid by Rick while Angela and David took credit.
Then I reached the estate plan.
My throat went dry.
“Rick…”
“After I die,” he said, “part of the company and the charitable foundation go to you.”
I dropped the folder onto the bed.
“No.”
“Yes, Layla. It’s the only way.”
“No. Your family already thinks I’m a gold digger. Imagine when they find out.”
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