Chapter 4
I never did reach that third-floor window.
The moment my body tilted forward, a bodyguard seized my collar brutally, dragging me like a bag of rotting garbage all the way back to the dungeon beneath the manor.
The iron door slammed shut with a deafening clang.
The fever completely shattered what remained of my consciousness. The glass shards embedded in my shattered kneecap went untreated, and under the wine's corrosive touch, the wound rapidly festered and rotted.
Sepsis sent my temperature soaring to terrifying heights, yet cold seemed to seep from my very bones.
I curled up on the concrete floor, convulsing with pain.
My ears filled with chaos—Carlos's manic laughter as he wielded the stun baton, Thalia's murmuring as she poured the wine, and Leander's furious accusation: "Always playing the victim."
Each sound drilled into my nerves like a power tool.
It hurt too much.
This broken body, every waking second—all of it unbearable.
My unfocused gaze drifted across the room until it landed on a broken wooden crate in the corner.
A piece of rusted metal protruded from its edge. Jagged. Sharp.
I stared at it, my dried-out eyes utterly blank.
If the window wouldn't work, this would. I just desperately needed a way to make the pain stop.
Using both hands, I dragged myself across the floor, my glass-filled leg leaving a dark crimson trail behind me as I inched toward the crate.
I pressed my wrist firmly against the sharpest point of the metal.
No hesitation. No fear.
I applied all my remaining strength and dragged it across my skin.
The first cut didn't go deep enough. I sawed back again.
A dull ache. The rusty edge tore through skin and flesh.
The moment warm blood began to flow, it carried away some of that torturous heat, dripping steadily onto the floor.
I leaned against the moldy wall, feeling my breathing grow lighter, my nerves finally stopped screaming.
Thank god.
Finally, the pain would stop.
Leander—I can finally leave you for good.
Meanwhile, at Castello estate, top floor study.
Leander reclined in his wide office chair, a cigar pinched between his fingers.
His brow furrowed deeply, his mind replaying the scene from the great hall: Cordelia kneeling bolt upright in broken glass, extending her tongue like a dog to lick wine from the floor.
He'd assumed it was an act—that she was using this extreme degradation to disgust him.
But somehow, those lifeless eyes left him inexplicably unsettled.
At this time, the study door opened. Mark, his right-hand man, entered, carrying a black briefcase, his face deathly pale.
"Boss." Mark's voice was tight, trembling even.
"What is it?"
"While clearing out Carlos's private safe from his compound, we found something..." Mark didn't dare meet his eyes, stiffly placing the case on the desk. "I think... you need to see this yourself."
The case opened. No drug formulas, no ledgers—just a blood-stained medical file and an old VHS tape.
Leander frowned, reaching for the topmost medical report.
The moment his eyes scanned the page, he froze completely.
Patient: Cordelia Castello. Gestational age: 11 weeks. Procedure: Forced termination without anesthesia. Complications: Extensive uterine perforation, irreversible damage.
Leander stared at those lines, his mind going completely blank. A loud ringing immediately drowned out every other sound.
"What the hell does this mean?" His voice wasn't loud, but it came out terrifyingly hoarse. "She was pregnant when she went to Mexico?"
Mark kept his head lowered, cold sweat streaming down his forehead. "Yes, sir... based on the timeline, the child was yours."
Leander shuddered violently. The cigar slipped from his fingers, falling onto the carpet and quickly burning a charred hole that gave off an acrid smell.
He snatched up the videotape, shoving it roughly into the player and hitting play.
The screen flickered to life. The setting was Carlos's dark, damp, moldy basement.
Cordelia was strapped to a rusted surgical table with four rough leather restraints binding her so tightly that her wrists and ankles were already raw and bleeding.
She struggled desperately, her face covered in tears and absolute terror.
This was from before—when she still had her voice.
"Please... Carlos, don't hurt my baby... please!"
Off-camera, Carlos approached with a twisted grin, holding a cold speculum still stained with dried blood.
"Leander threw you to me to do whatever I want. What business do you have carrying some bastard?" Carlos wasn't even wearing gloves. "Get rid of it."
No anesthesia.
On screen, the doctor thrust the instrument directly into Cordelia's body.
"AAHHH—!!!"
Even without turning up the volume, that soul-shattering scream pierced straight through Leander's eardrums.
On screen, Cordelia's body arched upward like a bow being snapped in half, the restraints nearly cutting through her wrist bones. Dark red blood poured down the surgical table, dripping steadily onto the concrete floor.
She convulsed with pain, and at the peak of despair, she screamed the same name over and over until her voice broke:
"Leander... save me... Leander..."
Leander sat before the screen, all the blood in his body seeming to drain away instantly, leaving him ice cold.
His breathing stopped completely. Veins bulged on the back of his hands as he gripped the desk edge so hard his nails cracked, though he didn't notice.
But the video wasn't over.
After the abortion, Cordelia lay on the table like a broken rag, unable to make any more sound.
Carlos walked over, prying open her jaw and brutally forcing an entire bottle of industrial acid down her throat—the kind that produced sharp yellow fumes.
"Why scream so loud? Leander can't hear you. He's disgusted by you anyway."
"Mmph—ghhk!!" Cordelia's eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, white foam mixed with rotting tissue pouring from her throat. She clawed frantically at her own neck, even tearing off a large chunk of skin.
Then Carlos picked up a rusted iron hammer.
"Nice legs. Shame you won't be using them anymore."
CRACK!
The hammer came down hard on her right knee. The dull crunch of shattering bone even drowned out the background noise.
CRASH!
Leander violently overturned the several-hundred-pound solid wood desk in front of him. It hit the floor with a thunderous boom, everything on it smashing to pieces.
Violent nausea surged up his throat. He bent over, hands braced against his knees, gasping for air, but his lungs felt vacuum-sealed, bringing a dizzy wave of oxygen deprivation.
No explanation needed.
The mysteries that had plagued him now transformed into resounding slaps across his face.
Why couldn't she speak? Why did she kneel in broken glass without reaction? Why did she lick wine off the floor like a beaten dog?
Because acid had destroyed her vocal cords. Because she'd been gutted alive while carrying his child. Because that leg had been smashed to pieces, blow by blow!
No pretense. No unchanged nature.
He had personally pushed her to that animal. And just now, he'd watched coldly as Thalia poured wine on her festering, broken leg!
"Where is she..." Leander's eyes were filled with terrifying bloodshot veins, his voice shaking uncontrollably. "WHERE IS SHE?!"
"Boss, she's still down in the dungeon—"
Before Mark could finish, Leander was already charging out of the study like a madman.
The stairs leading to the basement had never felt so long.
Leander practically tumbled down them, reaching the dungeon door and kicking the heavy iron barrier open.
The stench of mold, the rot of infected wounds, all mingled with a thick, pervasive smell of blood.
"Cordelia..."
His voice came out thin and hollow.
In the corner, that small body in the cheap maid's uniform was curled up beside the broken crate, utterly still.
Dark red blood ran from her dangling wrist, pooling on the floor into a horrifyingly large puddle.
This wasn't a clean cut from a blade—it was flesh sawed open with a rusted, dull piece of scrap metal, carved repeatedly until it was a ragged mess, deep enough to see bone.
How much pain must she have been in, how utterly hopeless, to end her life in such an agonizing way?
"No... no..."
Leander collapsed to his knees in that sticky pool of blood, his hands desperately trying to cover the ghastly wound on her wrist.
But the injury was too severe—blood wouldn't stop flowing, continuing to pour through his trembling fingers.
Bone-deep panic shattered through him. He clutched that broken body tightly, a torn, distorted roar tearing from deep in his throat:
"GET A DOCTOR! GET A FUCKING DOCTOR!!!"
