The Price of His Bitter Regret

From the back cover

Five years ago, my brother Declan stripped me of our family name and cast me out. Now, I was a cocktail waitress with terminal cancer, desperately trying to save enough money for my own urn.

To make the final payment, I got on my knees on the cold club floor to bark like a dog for a drunk man's cash.

My brother saw it all. But instead of helping, his face twisted in disgust. He fired me on the spot, withheld my final paycheck, and swore I'd never work in this city again, stealing my last chance to die with a shred of dignity.

He grabbed my arm, his eyes burning with a cold fire I once thought was reserved for his business rivals.

"I don't care if you die," he spat.

And in that moment, I knew he meant it. The last flicker of hope died. He had taken my name, my health, and my future. Now, he had even taken my death.

So I wrote a letter, revealing the truth he refused to see for five years-about the stolen watch, the woman who framed me, and the cancer eating me alive.

Then, I walked to the river. If I couldn't live with dignity, I would let my death be the final, undeniable truth.