No Second Chances

"I'm done here. Cyrus, let me go or deal with the consequences," Ronan snapped, his voice sharp with overwhelming disgust. He pulled at his heavy restraints, the thick ropes biting deep into his wrists.

Gideon shifted in his own bindings across the room, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. "Whatever else she is, she is still our father's daughter. She is your sister, Ronan. Remember that."

A bitter, hollow laugh tore from Ronan's throat, echoing in the cavernous studio. "Please! Do not insult me. I have only one true sister. Bianca." He leaned forward as much as the thick ropes allowed, his anger boiling over into the quiet room. "This venomous snake abused Bianca behind closed doors where no one could see. She seduced Bianca's fiancé just to break her heart. She drugged her own family, orchestrated gang attacks against her! From the very day she crawled back into our lives, Bianca cried herself to sleep in terror. Were you blind, Gideon? To hell with her tragic past. I refuse to pity her."

He glared at the massive screens projecting the memories, his chest heaving with exertion. To Ronan, Cordelia was nothing but a monster hiding behind a victim's mask. He had endured watching this forced stream only to see her suffer, to feed the deep hatred festering inside his chest. He felt vindicated by her pain. Now he had seen enough. Bianca needed him at the hospital, not here watching a villain's sob story.

A strange, knowing smile played across Cyrus's lips. He adjusted the cuffs of his pristine lab coat, stepping closer to Ronan's chair with maddening calm. "Patience, Ronan. One crucial memory remains before you are free to go."

"I will never yield to this," Ronan raged, spitting the words like poison. "She could die screaming right in front of me and I wouldn't flinch. You are just like her, Cyrus—ungrateful to the core. If Bianca hadn't risked her own life to save us in the past, you wouldn't be standing here right now breathing air. It makes you a perfect match for that witch."

Low murmurs rippled through the captive studio audience. People exchanged confused, uneasy glances.

Cyrus leaned in close, his face mere inches from Ronan's. When he spoke, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper that instantly silenced the murmuring studio. "Did Bianca truly save us, Ronan?" Cyrus asked, his dark eyes boring into the younger man. "Did you actually see it happen with your own eyes?"

The cryptic challenge sparked a sudden, blinding fury. Ronan lashed out, his heavy boot swinging upward. The sole connected hard with Cyrus's chest, leaving a large, dark muddy footprint stamped right over the doctor's pristine lab coat.

Cyrus didn't blink. He casually brushed the loose dirt away, his expression chillingly indifferent. He stepped back and gestured toward the massive screens dominating the room. "Let the viewing continue."

The memory stream resumed, projecting a breathtaking scene that bathed the dark studio in golden light. Cordelia stood gasping near a lush, sun-drenched hillside. Vast, golden wheat fields stretched out before her, swaying gently in the warm afternoon breeze. The open road was just beyond. It was the golden chance to flee to safety.

But instead of seizing her freedom and running toward the road, the battered young girl plunged into the dense wheat field, wading away from salvation.

Ronan watched from his corner, his upper lip curling in disgust. "She is pathetic," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Incapable of grabbing freedom even when it is handed directly to her on a silver platter."

The cameras, however, quickly revealed her true, selfless intent. As Cordelia parted the thick, golden wheat stalks, the scene unveiled two unconscious young boys lying hidden in the dirt. Their faces were smeared with grime and dried blood, but their tailored, expensive clothes marked them clearly as wealthy outsiders who had stumbled into a nightmare.

Cordelia did not hesitate. Fighting through severe exhaustion, her small legs trembling beneath her, she reached for the larger boy. Fresh, bleeding wounds from the recent beating by the trafficker tore open across her back and shoulders, staining her oversized, filthy shirt crimson. She gritted her teeth against the blinding agony, dragging the heavy boys, one by one, toward a shallow, concealed cave hidden deep in the rocky hillside.

As her weak legs buckled under the towering weight of the second boy, she fell hard against the uneven rocky ground. Rather than drop him and save herself, she twisted her own frail form beneath him, cushioning his heavy fall with her own bruised, battered body. A sharp whimper escaped her pale lips as the blunt impact jolted her broken spine.

"Have to hurry," she muttered through gritted teeth, forcing herself back up on shaking knees. Her bare feet sank deep into the slick mud. "If those men find them, they will end up in agonizing chains too. I won't let that happen."

Once she managed to drag them safely inside the cave's dim, cool shelter, Cordelia slumped heavily against the cold stone wall. She barely caught her breath before she pushed off the rock and vanished out the entrance, rushing back into the wild without a single backward glance.

Ronan sneered, his mocking voice cutting through the tense, waiting atmosphere in the studio. "Is this your big reveal? She left them to rot."

The livestream chat scrolling on the side monitors exploded with agreement, assuming her momentary compassion was nothing but a calculated act. Comments mocked her heroism, insisting she had merely put on a brief show before abandoning the strange boys to save her own skin.

The ensuing footage swiftly shattered their cruel assumptions. Cordelia had not run to freedom. She raced back out into the unforgiving wilderness, pushing blindly through the brush until she reached a dense thicket. She stopped before a massive patch of wild, razor-sharp thorns. Ignoring the dangerous barbs, she crouched down and plunged her bare, heavily scarred arms straight into the dense bush.

The thorns raked across her exposed flesh, tearing open long gashes. The intense, burning pain drew sharp gasps from her lips. She dug her small, trembling fingers into the unforgiving soil, desperately searching for the roots of an ordinary-looking medicinal plant buried deep within the center of the thicket.

When she finally yanked the plant free from the earth, the thorns tore through her skin once more in retreat. Her small palms were slick with fresh, warm blood. Sharp barbs remained buried deep in her knuckles. Yet, despite the flowing tears cutting wet tracks through the thick grime on her cheeks, she managed a genuine, bright smile.

"Perfect," she whispered to the empty forest, clutching the bloody leaves to her chest. "The younger boy is burning up. This plant should break his dangerous fever."

She turned and stumbled toward a nearby stream, the cool mountain breeze sending fire racing through her shredded arms. As she knelt by the water to wash her bleeding wounds, the mocking comments on the livestream ceased. The chat went deadly still.

Inside the penthouse studio, the cruel sneers and dismissive murmurs gave way to a heavy, stunned silence.

Gideon leaned forward against his ropes. His eyes were transfixed by Cordelia's reflection rippling in the cold stream water. The delicate, innocent four-year-old he vividly remembered was gone. Her young, round face was already hardened by severe trauma, shaped by brutal survival and unbearable agony.

A heavy, suffocating ache of profound regret gripped Gideon's chest. The air caught in his throat like broken glass. He stared at the battered child on the screen, his mind flashing forward to the cold, distant, heavily guarded teenager who eventually returned to the Mercer estate years later. He desperately wondered if his patience, if just a fraction of true warmth and understanding, could have saved her from losing her way when she finally came home. Had he failed to see the shattered child screaming for help beneath her icy, defensive exterior?

Back in the projected memory, Cordelia returned to the hidden cave, carrying fresh water cupped in large, broad leaves. The two boys remained motionless on the dusty stone floor. She bypassed the older boy and crouched gently beside the feverish younger one.

Her bloody, scarred hands reached out with surprising tenderness. She wet a clean scrap of her torn shirt with the stream water and began carefully wiping the thick, dark grime from his flushed, sweating face.

Stroke by stroke, the heavy dirt fell away under her gentle care. As the true facial features of the unconscious younger boy were slowly revealed in the dim light of the cave, a collective gasp swept through the room. The realization slammed into the viewing audience with the force of a physical blow.

Everyone in the studio was left speechless.