Layla’s POV
The photo felt heavier than paper.
I stood outside Jax’s office for almost five minutes, just staring at the door. The bass from the bar downstairs thumped through the floor. Laughter. Bottles clinking. Somebody yelling over a football game on TV.
Normal night. My hands shook anyway. I knocked once.
“Come in,” Jax said.
His voice sounded tired. Rough. The kind of voice he had after no sleep and too many problems.
I opened the door. He stood behind his desk, phone in hand, maps and weapons laid out like war planning. His cut rested over the chair. He looked up—and the second he saw my face, he knew something was wrong.
“Layla,” he said softer. “What happened?”
I didn’t answer. I just walked forward and put the photo on the desk. He looked down. The silence stretched. He
