I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father-Chapter 317: I’m Sorry Mama

On his way back from the cemetery, Brandon did not head home.

The road toward his apartment appeared before him, familiar and automatic, but he drove past the turn without slowing.

Instead, he took a wide detour through side streets and looping avenues, checking his mirrors at every intersection.

No headlights stayed too long behind him.

No car matched his turns.

Still, he did not relax.

By the time he reached the quiet, tree-lined street where Levi’s mansion stood, the sky had deepened into full night. The property lights glowed warm against the manicured hedges, illuminating tall iron gates and the long driveway beyond.

Brandon parked several houses away, beneath the shadow of an old oak tree.

He turned off the engine.

Silence rushed in.

Lyse had been living there.

She had not returned to her apartment since Levi had taken her away.

Taken.

That was the word Brandon used in his mind.

As if she had been stolen property.

As if she had not walked willingly.

His jaw clenched.

He punched the steering wheel once, the sharp sting shooting up his knuckles.

He imagined it was Levi’s face.

Old.

Smug.

Calculating.

He sneered.

Levi had always worn that composed mask, as though he were above everyone else. As though Brandon were a reckless child to be tolerated.

He wished he could drag him out into the street and beat him until that calm expression shattered.

Instead of treating him like a son, Levi had chosen to humiliate him.

To replace him.

To steal his woman.

His woman.

The possessive thought pulsed through him, hot and irrational.

He stared at the mansion gates.

Two guards stood at the entrance.

Even from a distance, their posture was unmistakablyalert, disciplined, heavily built.

Security lights swept methodically across the driveway.

Cameras rotated in slow arcs.

If the guards at the front were anything to judge by, there had to be dozens more inside.

Waiting.

Prepared.

Ready to tear him apart.

The image flickered through his mind: himself storming the gates, pushing through, finding Lyse in Levi’s arms...

The fantasy shifted violently into a nightmare of bullets and broken bones.

He exhaled sharply.

Not yet.

He needed a better plan.

He leaned forward slightly, squinting toward the house.

One of the upstairs windows glowed softly.

Was she there?

Was she sleeping peacefully?

Was she laughing with him?

His heart felt heavy in his chest, as though someone had replaced it with a lump of coal.

He just wanted a glimpse of her.

Just one second.

A silhouette at the window.

A shadow passing by.

Proof she was real and not some fragile memory slipping further from him.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Then another.

He sat in the dark car like a cop.

Watching.

Waiting.

Each time a vehicle approached the gates, his breath caught.

Each time it wasn’t her.

At one point, a female figure appeared briefly on the balcony.

His pulse spiked.

But the lighting shifted and he realized it wasn’t Lyse.

His hands curled into fists.

By the third hour, the ache behind his eyes had become dull and constant.

The guards rotated shifts.

The lights remained steady.

Lyse still did not appear.

Eventually, reality pressed in.

He would not see her tonight.

He started the engine slowly, casting one final look at the mansion before pulling away.

As he drove back toward his apartment, exhaustion crept into his limbs.

The highway felt emptier now.

Colder.

He checked his mirrors reflexively, but the earlier paranoia felt distant compared to the hollow disappointment consuming him.

When he neared his building, he remembered he had no food at home.

For a brief second, he considered turning around.

Driving aimlessly again.

But the thought of sitting alone in his car held no appeal.

He would order something.

It didn’t matter what.

Food was functional, not meaningful.

"At least I spoke to mama," he murmured softly.

That thought comforted him.

His mother understood him.

She always had.

He moved toward the sofa and sank into it heavily.

He had stood before her grave and confessed everything.

His fears.

His plans.

His certainty that Lyse still belonged with him.

And, as always, he had apologized.

Apologized for killing her.

The memory surfaced uninvited.

Unavoidable.

*

It had been late.

Rain hammered against the windows that night.

His mother had been pacing the living room, wine glass trembling slightly in her hand.

"You’ve ruined yourself," she had said sharply.

"I know what I’m doing," he had replied.

"You don’t listen to me," she snapped. "When have I ever led you wrong."

"Breaking up with Lyse was a mistake," he had said defensively.

She had laughed bitterly.

"Do you know what people are saying about you?"

"I don’t care what people say."

"You should!" she had shouted. "Because reputation is everything in this family!"

The argument had spiraled quickly.

She had accused him of destroying alliances.

Of embarrassing the family name.

Of thinking with ego instead of strategy.

Then she had said it.

"You are a bastard exactly like your father."

The word had hung in the air.

Ugly.

Venomous.

His ears had rung.

"Take that back," he had warned quietly.

She hadn’t.

Instead, she had turned on him fully.

"And don’t you dare judge me," she had added. "I know the kind of women you chase. You’re no better."

The hypocrisy had ignited something feral inside him.

"You’re the one who spent years chasing attention from men and now you don’t even know my father," he had spat back. "Don’t pretend you’re a saint."

Her face had gone pale.

"How dare you."

"Everyone knows," he had continued, stepping closer. "You think I didn’t see? The late nights. The ’charity dinners.’ You’re not a mother. You’re..."

The word had slipped out before he could stop it.

"A whore."

Silence.

The rain outside felt deafening.

Her hand had lifted.

The slap echoed sharply across the room.

His cheek burned.

He stared at her.

Something shifted.

Not in anger.

In calculation.

She had crossed a line.

She had chosen humiliation over loyalty.

"You’re ungrateful," she had whispered. "I should have raised you better."

The words had been softer.

But they cut deeper.

She turned away from him, shaking her head.

And in that moment, that precise moment he had felt something detach inside him.

A cord snapping.

He moved without fully thinking.

His hand closed around the heavy crystal decanter on the table.

It happened quickly.

Too quickly to feel real.

She turned back just as he swung.

The sound was dull.

Wet.

She fell.

The wine spread across the carpet like spilled blood — or perhaps it was blood.

He remembered standing there, breathing hard.

The rain still falling.

The house silent.

For a long time, he had simply stared.

Then he had knelt beside her.

"Mama?" he had whispered.

She didn’t answer.

He had touched her face.

Cold already.

He had not meant to kill her.

He had only meant to stop her.

To silence the insult.

To correct the disrespect.

Later, he told himself it had been mercy.

She had been unhappy.

Disappointed.

Her life had revolved around reputation.

Now she would not have to witness his decline.

He arranged it carefully afterward.

An accident.

A fall.

The authorities had accepted it.

Prestigious families were rarely questioned deeply.

Back in the present, Brandon leaned his head back against the sofa.

He closed his eyes.

"I’m sorry, mama," he murmured into the empty apartment. "You know I didn’t mean it like that."

He believed she forgave him.

He had brought her lilies tonight. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

He had spoken to her.

Confessed his plan to reclaim Lyse.

He imagined her nodding in approval.

Encouraging him.

Telling him he was destined for more.

The food delivery notification buzzed on his phone, snapping him back.

He rose slowly to retrieve it.

As he walked back into the living room with the paper bag in hand, his eyes drifted once more to the wall of photographs.

Lyse smiled down at him from every frame.

Soon, he promised silently.

Soon everything would be fixed.

He just needed the right move.

The right pressure point.

The right moment.

And when that moment came,

He would not hesitate again.