Chapter 4Tethered to His Heartbeat

The next morning, the sun was bright, but not a single ray reached the basement.

When the housekeeper dragged me up to the living room, the space was already filled with people.

Seven or eight young heiresses, dressed in designer clothes, sat around the coffee table, which was laden with fruit platters and afternoon tea.

"This is her? This is the woman Wyatt Landry has been hiding?"

A girl with dusty-pink hair leaned forward, looking me up and down with a sneer. "She looks like a stray. Even my cleaning lady dresses better than this."

Another girl, wearing oversized sunglasses, laughed as she cracked open a melon seed. "I heard she didn't even finish high school. Used to sell roasted sweet potatoes on the street corner."

"Oh my god, seriously? When did Wyatt's taste get so... municipal?"

I stood in the center of the room, my head hung low, letting them dissect me.

Isabel sat in the center of the plush sofa, her legs crossed. She beckoned me with a finger.

"Come here."

"Kneel."

I didn't move.

"Are you deaf?"

A bodyguard kicked me hard from behind, right in the back of my knees. I crashed onto the marble floor, the impact sending a shudder of pain through my kneecaps.

Isabel smiled thinly.

"Girls, Wyatt was so insistent that I take good care of her while he was away. And you know what? The more he talked about her, the more curious I got."

She leaned forward, her voice carrying across the room.

"Whoever makes her cry and beg for mercy today gets the exclusive shipping contracts for the Caldwell Group’s southwest region next year."

Silence fell over the room for a brief second. Then, the pink-haired girl stood up.

"Mind if I go first?"

Isabel waved her hand generously. "Be my guest."

The girl walked over, stared down at me for a moment, and delivered a sharp slap to my left cheek.

The sharp edge of her diamond ring sliced my skin. A bead of blood welled up and ran down my jawline, dripping onto my collar.

I didn't make a sound. I didn't dare.

If I cried, Wyatt would break down sobbing in some high-profile international boardroom. The European investors, waiting for any sign of weakness, would realize that the head of the Landry empire was unstable.

I had to endure it.

The slaps kept coming.

When one grew tired, another took her place.

They slapped my face, pinched my arms, and jabbed the backs of my hands with dessert forks.

I clamped my jaw shut, absorbing the pain, refusing to let a single tear fall.

But then, the girl in the sunglasses reached for the faded, dirty string around my neck.

My pupils dilated.

Attached to the string was a small, tattered rag doll, its paint long since peeled away.

My grandmother had sewn it for me from scraps of old cloth before she passed away.

Inside its belly, instead of cotton, was a tiny, cheap recording chip.

Before she closed her eyes for the last time, she had pressed the record button one last time:

"Don't cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile."

It was the only thing I had left of her. It was the sole anchor of my happiness.

"What is this garbage?" the girl sneered, ripping the doll off my neck.

"Just a filthy piece of trash. Throw it away."

She tossed it casually. It flew through the air and landed right at Isabel’s feet.

"No!"

I lunged forward, my knees scraping against the marble, leaving a smear of blood behind. But just as my fingers brushed the string—

Isabel’s stiletto heel came down on the doll.

"So precious to you?"

She picked it up by the string, pressing its belly.

My grandmother’s raspy, tender voice drifted out of the worn fabric.

"Don't cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile..."

"Oh my god, that is so tacky!"

"Creepy!"

"Please," I sobbed, dropping my forehead to the floor. I banged my head against the marble over and over, the sound echoing through the room as blood began to trickle down my face.

"That's from my grandmother. It’s all I have left of her. Please, take anything else. Just leave me that."

"I'm begging you."

Isabel looked down at my bleeding forehead, her expression entirely devoid of warmth.

"You know, an orphan looks quite beautiful when she's begging."

She smiled. And then, right in front of my eyes, she ground her heel down into the doll's chest.

CRACK.

The fabric tore. The stuffing spilled out onto the floor, and the tiny voice chip was crushed into plastic dust.

The gentle voice—"Don't cry, my sweet..."—cut off mid-word.

I froze.

The sound was gone. The light was gone. The warmth was gone.

The part of me that was capable of feeling joy withered and died in that exact second.

Isabel looked at me, hollowed out and limp on the floor, and clapped her hands together.

She turned to a tripod setup nearby, waving at the live broadcast stream on her phone.

"See, girls? She’s nothing but a cheap toy. Wyatt really lost his mind—"

Before she could finish, a deafening roar shook the villa.

A helicopter was hovering dangerously low outside.

Heavier than the wind, the grand double doors and the massive floor-to-ceiling glass panes shattered inward.

Before the shards even touched the floor, a man covered in dried blood, his designer suit shredded with blade cuts, charged through the cloud of dust.

Wyatt.

The heiresses shrieked, scattering in terror.

Isabel froze, then quickly tried to put on a worried face, stepping toward him.

"Wyatt! You're back! Oh my god, you're bleeding! Who did this to you—"

Wyatt didn't look at her.

His bloodshot eyes were locked entirely on the motionless, bloody figure in the center of the room.

He shoved Isabel out of his way. He didn't yell. He didn't strike anyone.

His legs shook violently as he walked toward me.

And then, with a heavy, hollow sound, he fell to his knees.

The master of a multi-billion-dollar empire, kneeling before a broken girl covered in blood and filth.

With a trembling, bleeding hand, he reached behind his back and drew a silver utility knife.

He pressed the blade directly against his own throat, right over the pulsing carotid artery.

Wyatt looked up at me, his face drenched in tears.

His body was shaking with uncontrollable tremors.

He looked into my empty, hollow eyes, and forced his lips into a wide, terrifyingly distorted smile.

"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"Smile for me."

"Or... just kill me."

"I can't... I can't hold on anymore..."