Layla’s POV
Months went by. Life found a strange, quiet rhythm. Jax finally gave us our space. He didn't try to talk to me. He didn't come to the bar. It was like we were ghosts living in the same house, walking right through each other.
My dad and I became a team. A real one. Every morning, I'd meet him in the small office at the clubhouse—they called it "the war room," but it was just a room with a table and a coffee machine. We’d go over the club’s books together. My job was to check his math. Fuel for the bikes. Meat for the grill. Bullets for target practice. I learned the cost of running a biker club. It was a lot.
In the afternoons, we’d go to my bar, The Last Call. He’d sit at the end of the bar with his ledger, and I’d serve drinks. It felt normal. He was my best friend here.
