Eleanora Bryan POV:
"Tell them," Brittnie snarled, her voice a whip-crack, "or your little puppet dies."
I stopped struggling. My body trembled, but my mind was numb. Gabe. Only Gabe mattered.
With shaking hands, I unbuttoned my blouse, feeling the cold air, feeling the predatory gazes of Clabe and the guards. My skin crawled. My dignity was being shredded piece by piece, but I had to do it.
"Now," Brittnie commanded, her phone held steady, capturing every agonizing second. "Say it. 'I, Eleanora Bryan, confess that I am Cannon Bryan's secret mistress. I tried to break up his engagement to Brittnie Snow, and I stole her emerald brooch. Gabe is not his son.'"
The words felt like poison on my tongue. Each syllable was a knife twisting in my gut. But I forced them out, my voice raspy, broken. "I... I, Eleanora Bryan... confess that I am Cannon Bryan's secret mistress. I tried to break up his engagement to Brittnie Snow, and I stole her emerald brooch. Gabe is not his son."
My voice broke on the last word, a choked sob. "Please," I choked out, tears streaming down my face. "Now, help him. Save my son."
Brittnie's eyes narrowed. She grabbed my chin, forcing me to look into her cold, merciless gaze. "That's not enough. You added your little plea for him. You think you can manipulate me?" She slapped me again, a sharp, stinging blow that echoed in the silent room.
"You will say it again," she hissed, her voice radiating pure hatred. "And you will say it without any of your pathetic pleas. Just the confession. Pure. Undiluted. Or I swear to God, I will watch him take his last breath right in front of you."
I tried to argue, to clarify Gabe's true relationship to Cannon, but her grip tightened, her fingers like iron clamps. "He's his brother, Brittnie, his half-brother! My son with my late husband. Cannon loves him!"
She just laughed. "Cannon loves me. And he's going to propose to me tonight. He wouldn't care about some... some mistake from your past."
"I forgive you!" I cried, desperate, offering the one thing I had left. "I forgive you for all of this. Just please, save my son."
Brittnie's eyes flashed with contempt. "Forgive me? You? You have no right to forgive me, you pathetic old whore. You have nothing." She backhanded me again, sending me sprawling. "You think I want your forgiveness? I want your suffering."
"Clabe," she snapped, her voice ringing with command. "Record this. Every single tear. Every agonizing moment."
Clabe instantly obeyed, his phone a weapon in his hand. My humiliation was broadcast, a grotesque spectacle for his perverse pleasure. There was no escape. No privacy.
Panic, raw and animalistic, surged through me. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't. I scrambled backward, trying to get away, trying to hide from the lens, from her cruel gaze, from the leering men.
My foot caught on something, and I tripped, falling backwards onto the gurney. A jolt went through the thin mattress. My hand instinctively reached out, grasping for something, anything, to steady myself.
My fingers closed around Gabe's small, still hand.
And then I felt it. A coldness that seeped into my bones, a terrifying stillness that stole my breath. It wasn't just the lack of movement. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life.
No.
My heart stopped. My mind screamed.
"Gabe?" I whispered, my voice a ragged gasp. I pressed my palm against his cheek. I felt nothing. No warmth. No breath.
My fingers flew to his neck, searching for a pulse. There was nothing. Just cold, still flesh.
No. No. No.
"Gabe! Baby, wake up! Breathe for Mommy!" I started shaking him gently, then harder, my mind refusing to accept the horrifying truth. "Wake up! Please, God, wake up!"
I pressed my ear to his chest, listening, praying, begging for a heartbeat. Silence. Absolute, terrifying silence.
My baby. My sweet, innocent Gabe.
He was gone.
My screams tore through the sterile air, primal, agonizing. He was gone. All that humiliation. All that pain. For nothing. Brittnie had won. And Gabe had paid the price.
A cold, burning rage, unlike anything I had ever known, ignited in the pit of my stomach. It consumed the fear, the despair, the humiliation. It left only a raw, searing inferno.
Brittnie Snow killed my son. She killed my baby.
I slowly pushed myself up, my body aching, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the monstrous grief and rage roaring in my soul. My eyes, no longer filled with tears, fixed on Brittnie. They were cold, hard, and utterly feral.
"You killed him," I whispered, the words laced with pure venom. My voice was calm, too calm, a terrifying quiet before the storm. "You killed my son."
