I Married My Friend’s…

“I was only welcoming her.”

Rick stepped in, closed it softly, and the room went 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 to face him fully. “Then tell me.”

He didn’t move closer.

“I am dying, Layla.”

“What?”

“My heart,” he said. “Maybe months. A year, if the Lord is feeling theatrical.”

“It’s too late to walk away.”

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.” Rick nodded toward the folder on the bedside table. “Open it.”

I did.

“Your own son?”

Inside were transfers, legal drafts, and notes in his handwriting.

There were donations promised and never sent. Employees pushed out quietly. And Violet’s mother’s hospital bills covered by Rick while Angela and David took the credit.

Then I reached the estate plan.

My mouth 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, Rick. Imagine when they find out.”

Then I reached the estate plan.