Page 58 of Jayson
Public disgrace. Private denial. Classic Bishop.
But even stripped of his title, his legacy still clings to me like smoke in my lungs. And no amount of time or distance will ever make me forget what that campus took from me.
The moment the ‘incident’ happened, I packed a bag and caught the next train back home. I didn’t know then that coming home would mean watching my father bleed out in his own bed.I didn’t know it would end with me being kidnapped by the man who took his life. Now here I am—pretending everything’s fine, that I’m just a sweet girl on her way to class, while a storm brews under my skin.
Lionel pulls up to the university gates, neat and pristine like a glossy brochure. The kind of place that promises a future. I thank him quietly, clutching my bag like a lifeline.
“I’ll be back here at three to collect you,” he says.
I nod, smile. “Thank you, Lionel.”
I walk through the university gates, then wait until his car disappears around the bend, tail lights blinking like the last remnants of my lie.
Then I spin on my heel and head back for the street, raising my hand for a passing taxi.
The driver doesn’t blink when I give him the address to the Bishop mansion—what used to be my home, and now feels like a haunted museum I can’t stop revisiting.
The ride is quiet, and for the first time in days, I let myself feel. The taxi smells like stale coffee and cheap air freshener, and it grounds me more than anything has since Jayson’s cold hands closed around my wrist that night.
I could do this all day, every day. Leave the comfort and relative safety of the estate, as though going to university, then circle back and hang out in my childhood home. What’s to stop me? No one would have to know.
I was never planning to go back.
That’s the part no one knows.
Not Jayson. Not Nina. Not anyone.
I hadn’t been home since I left for college.
They think I’m playing house, trying to make the best of a terrible situation. But the truth? I came home to confront my father.
The incident on campus had jarred something loose—memories I’d buried. Ones that didn’t make sense until I let them breathe. The friend who went missing. The looks. The parties my father threw when I was just young enough to be invisible.
The puzzle pieces don’t fit yet. But they’re sharp. Jagged. Bloody. And now I’ll never get answers. Never get the truth from his lips. Because the man who could’ve confirmed it all is dead—by Jayson’s hand.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the cold window.
I’m not here to mourn him. I’m here to pack my history away. To leave this version of my life behind. For good.
25
JAYSON
People think this life is about loyalty tothe family.
It’s not. It’s about loyalty to the ones who showed up when you were bleeding, not when you were winning. To the ones who didn’t ask questions, and didn’t run when you needed them most. The ones who looked at you, broken and burning, and said, “Stand behind me.”
Brotherhood doesn’t come from blood. Because blood lies. It leaves. It runs cold. Brotherhood is earned in the silence after a disaster. In the moments when no one else is watching.
It’s in the way he hands you a clean shirt after you’ve buried something you can’t talk about.
It’s in the shoulder bump instead of a hug. The way he says nothing when you’re spiraling—because he’s already killed the man who hurt you.
You don’t have to like each other, or talk every day. You just have to know that when the call comes in at 2:00 a.m, he’ll answer.
And when he needs you? You’ll show up. No matter the cost.
Brotherhood is built on violence and secrets. It’s forged in alleys, locked rooms, shallow graves. It’s not loud. It’s not soft. It’snot always good. But it’s real. And in this world? Real is the rarest thing there is.
