Shaken Beliefs

The abrupt, suffocating black screen of the memory feed swallowed the penthouse studio. A heavy, tense silence settled over the room, pressing down on everyone present, only to be shattered by a single line of text scrolling across the live monitor.

*[So Declan basically set up his own little sister.]*

The damning accusation hit the chat like a stone dropped in still water, sending immediate ripples of outrage through the viewers. Declan’s loyal defenders scrambled to shield his honor from the crushing reality of his own confession.

*[He has typical guy fashion sense. Cut him some slack.]*

*[She could have just taken the clip out if she hated it that much. Her choice, her consequences.]*

Declan clung to their typed excuses, his chest heaving as he tried to deflect the agonizing weight of his guilt. "It was just bad luck," he muttered, his voice weak and trembling. "Why else would—"

"Because she never refused us anything back then," Gideon interrupted. His voice sounded raw, grinding like cracked glass. "And you knew exactly how much she despised fuzzy textures."

A flush of defensive heat crept up Declan's neck. "What are you suggesting?" he demanded, his tone rising in pitch. "That I forced her to get kidnapped?" His composure splintered, the veins in his neck bulging against his skin. "Are you letting thirty minutes of video footage make you forget about Bianca? Our real sister? The one who truly loved us and is currently lying in a hospital bed?"

The mention of Bianca acted as a lit match in a powder keg. Gideon’s own admirers—drawn in by his striking looks and his high-profile position as Vice President of the Mercer Group—flooded the chat to combat Declan's fanbase. The screen became a chaotic blur of warring text as the two sides clashed over their divided loyalties.

"Focus," Gideon commanded, slicing through the digital noise. He strained against his heavy restraints, the thick ropes biting deep into his wrists as he fought for leverage. "We caught the man on the cliff, but we never found the woman on that phone call. She orchestrated the kidnapping. This is an open case. I need to find her."

Cyrus Hargrove stepped forward, a mocking lilt softening his words. "Rest assured, Mr. Mercer. The authorities have the recording. They are investigating as we speak." Cyrus leaned in closer, his dark gaze pinning Gideon to the chair. "Shall we continue the feed? Or do you lack the stomach to see what happened next?"

Gideon froze. The struggle left his body, replaced by a twisting knot of dread deep in his gut. If Cordelia had once been this pure, this selfless, what profound darkness had successfully warped her into the cruel woman he knew today?

The monitor flickered back to life, skipping like a scratched record over flashes of yellow dirt, green fields, and a desolate village seemingly frozen in the last century.

"Vernon, look what I brought home!" an older woman’s voice crowed, cutting through the static.

"Half an hour and you snagged a girl?" Vernon Fletcher replied, stepping into the frame. "Still breathing after your rough handling?"

Maude Fletcher puffed out her chest, her eyes gleaming with unfiltered greed. "Found her like this. A free child, and she’s still kicking. Pretty little thing too. She’ll fetch a lucrative price once those wounds heal up."

A collective gasp echoed through the studio. The undeniable proof of a human trafficking ring silenced even the loudest critics for a brief second. Then, astonishingly, the twisted rationalizations began again.

*[Trafficking? Is that why Cordelia sued them?]*

*[But she lost that case. Must be fake then.]*

*[Not all of them are monsters. This couple might have been decent Samaritans, and Cordelia was just seeing evil where there was none.]*

The footage jumped again, plunging the viewers into a new nightmare. Cordelia lay curled on the floor of a filthy cattle pen. The brick walls were stained black with decades of grime. Wet mud and rotting straw coated the ground, creating a revolting stench that seemed to permeate the screen.

Her beautiful princess dress was gone. In its place hung a shapeless, yellowed shirt that swallowed her tiny frame. She huddled into a tight ball, her mud-caked arms wrapping tightly around her knees.

"Mom... Dad..." the four-year-old whimpered, her sweet voice reduced to a sandpaper-rough rasp. "Where are you? I’m so hungry."

Dawn broke, casting a pale, cold light through the wooden slats. The heavy iron lock clicked open. Maude stepped into the pen, her seemingly gentle features twisting into sheer malice.

"Ready to behave, you little beast?" Maude sneered, staring down at the shivering child. "Welcome to my lair, sweetie. Nobody leaves unless I say so."

She reached down, curling her thick fingers into Cordelia’s tangled hair, and yanked without mercy.

Cordelia let out a sharp, agonizing cry as Maude dragged her backward out of the pen. The child’s knees and freshly scabbed palms scraped against the unforgiving, hard-packed dirt of the courtyard. Fresh blood welled up from her hands, mixing with the dark mud coating her fragile skin.

"Please... it hurts," Cordelia pleaded, tears carving clean tracks through the grime on her face. Too weak to fight back, she lay on the ground, a fragile, broken heap. "Please don't sell me. My family will worry."

Maude ignored the desperate pleas. She looked down at the blood and mud smearing the courtyard stones and curled her lip in intense disgust. "Filthy creature," she muttered.

Snatching up a high-pressure hose, Maude aimed the heavy nozzle directly at the helpless four-year-old and pulled the trigger. A thick blast of ice-cold autumn water slammed into Cordelia, knocking her flat against the dirt. The child gasped for air, her small body convulsing with fierce shivers as the freezing stream battered her fresh wounds.

Then, the brutal assault paused.

Maude stepped closer, dropping the hose to the ground. She reached down and jerked Cordelia’s chin upward. As the dark mud washed away from the girl's cheeks, the cruel lines around Maude’s mouth smoothed out into cold, predatory calculation. She took in the striking, undeniable beauty of the little girl's face.

"Well, aren't you a pretty one," Maude mused.

The abuse vanished like morning mist, replaced by a chilling pragmatism. Maude hauled the shivering girl inside the house. She stripped off the soaked shirt, dressed her in dry clothes, and even began swabbing the scraped palms with antiseptic.

"Behave, and I might keep you," Maude promised.

In the chat, a misguided, collective sigh of relief swept across the screen.

*[See? This woman wasn't heartless.]*

*[They picked her up when she was injured. She might have died there in the woods. Some people call that mercy.]*

Declan seized the twisted sentiment like a drowning man grasping at straws. He leaned forward, pointing a shaking finger at the monitor. "Look at that, Gideon! Her captor showed her mercy. She treated her wounds. Yet Cordelia still turned on her, just like she turned on us!"

"Enough!" Gideon’s voice cracked like a whip, shutting down the nonsense. "I believe in her inherent goodness. Whatever happened later twisted her into what she became, but do not defend this!" He glared at his brother, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "That woman is a trafficker! Anyone who preys on children deserves severe punishment."

Listening to the brothers' heated exchange, Cyrus leaned back against the wall. A cold, knowing laugh slipped past his lips, though he deliberately held his tongue, keeping the rest of his thoughts locked away.