Goodbye, Mr. Regret

Phelps emerged from behind a tombstone, leaning heavily on his cane.

And in that instant, Timothy finally understood.

He'd been tricked-lured here by his own father and grandfather.

Fury surged through him as he gripped the sledgehammer in his hand, his knuckles white. He swung the heavy tool, its iron head pointing straight at Naylor. "Was this your doing?" His voice was cold and dangerous.

Naylor, pale and shaken, scurried to Phelps's side. "Dad, it was your idea! You have to explain to Timothy-it wasn't all me!"

Phelps's voice cracked like a whip. "Have you ever been this stupid before? If you were going to leave the hammer, couldn't you at least have tossed it farther away?"

Naylor stared down at his shoes, unable to meet his father's eyes or his son's. He'd always felt caught in the middle-his father, sharp and forceful even in old age, and Timothy, the rising star who'd already outshone them both. Naylor was just... ordinary, stuck between two storms.

Timothy's chiseled features were shadowed and tense, a vein throbbing at his temple. They were all mad-tampering with his mother's grave just to lure him back?

low, commanding. "Timothy, let's go. We need to get back to The Gilded

the sledgehammer away. Naylor flinched, shielding his head, but

abdomen-he'd torn open his wound again, staining his white

real concern flickered in Phelps's

Timothy was already

f

told Phelps what happened that night. She hadn't gone to the police, just reached out to the

want Timothy out of the way, and the Lawson family to step in

a bitter pang, that he'd never truly understood Jessica. She seemed fragile, but she could strike back just as hard, in her own

get back. The whole incident had been a misunderstanding—one he'd never explained, and if he didn't, it would

a glance from Phelps, the men he'd brought with him stepped

a steely glare at his