Derek choked and sputtered, his broken body unable to fight back. The sound was wet, pathetic, like the wheeze of a dying animal.
But Brandon wasn’t finished. Holding Derek steady, he began to tie him to the chair with thick ropes, each knot pulled tight with ticulous precision.
Derek squird weakly, his breath hitching as the ropes bit into his battered skin, but it was no use.
Brandon’s hands worked quickly and expertly, binding Derek so securely that even the faintest attempt at resistance was futile.
When the ropes were done, Brandon stepped back, surveying his work. Derek slumped forward, his head drooping, but the bindings held him upright, forcing him to remain on display.
"Good work," Ross said with a faint smile. His eyes flicked to the bed, where crimson stains from Derek’s earlier tornt had seeped into the sheets.
"Now, clean this up. I want everything spotless."
Brandon nodded and imdiately got to work. He stripped the blood-soaked linens with practiced ease, bundling them into a pile before wiping down the mattress.
His movents were chanical, efficient, as though he’d done this a hundred tis before.
Derek’s groans went ignored as Brandon worked, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he moved around the room.
Within ten minutes, the transformation was complete. The bed, once a site of brutal violence, now looked pristine, the crisp white sheets tucked in perfectly.
The room itself carried no hint of the earlier chaos, save for Derek’s broken form tied to the chair.
Ross sat down on the freshly made bed, leaning back slightly as he ran a hand across the smooth fabric. "Much better," he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. He glanced at Derek, whose head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering open and closed as he struggled to stay conscious.
"Now, all we have to do is wait for our special guest," Ross said, his tone light, almost playful. He shifted on the bed, testing its plushness, and allowed himself a mont of quiet contemplation.
His gaze wandered back to Derek.
"You should feel honored," Ross said mockingly. "Not everyone gets to be the centerpiece of such a morable evening. And look at you—tall, handso, once so full of yourself. Now? You’re just a broken little puppet. I’d almost feel sorry for you if it weren’t so satisfying."
Derek groaned again, his voice barely audible, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. His face was a grotesque mask of swelling and bruises, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle.
Yet his bright blue eyes, untouched and glistening, betrayed the fear simring beneath the pain.
Ross leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and smiled coldly.
"I wonder what our guest will think when she sees you like this. Will she pity you? Will she laugh? She might cry perhaps? Or maybe… just maybe, they’ll thank for showing them the real you."
He leaned back again, his posture relaxed as though he had all the ti in the world. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the faint creak of the chair and Derek’s ragged breathing.
Brandon stood by the door, his arms crossed, watching with quiet indifference. His job was done—for now. He knew better than to speak unless instructed, and Ross appreciated his unwavering loyalty.
Ross let out a soft chuckle, his fingers drumming lightly on the bed.
"I’ll admit, Derek, you’re proving to be more entertaining than I thought. But don’t get too comfortable—we’ve only just begun."
Ti seed to stretch, every second a cruel eternity for Derek. He wanted to speak, to plead, but his swollen mouth and shattered jaw rendered him silent. Continue reading at .Côm
All he could do was wait, dreading the arrival of whoever Ross had in store for the "finale."
And as Ross sat there, a faint smile playing on his lips, it was clear that whatever was coming next would be far worse than anything Derek had endured so far.
***
Iris Davies stood at the bathroom sink, the faint hum of the overhead light casting a soft glow across her reflection.
She gently dabbed at her face with a towel, removing the last traces of makeup from yet another event-filled evening.
Tonight, it had been the birthday party of a family friend, one of many celebrations she and her husband Karl attended as part of their highly public lives.
Her hands stilled as she stared into the mirror, her blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion. How many of these parties had she endured over the years?
Hundreds, perhaps thousands.
Once, she had thrived in the glitz and glamour of it all. The thrill of wearing designer gowns, the sparkle of chandeliers, the whispers of admiration as she walked into a room—it had been intoxicating.
But now, at 45, it all felt hollow. The endless small talk, the shallow laughter, the polite smiles—all of it blurred together in an exhausting cycle.
The life she had once dread of now felt more like a gilded cage.
"I wanted this," Iris murmured, her voice barely audible over the soft drip of the faucet. She sighed, running her fingers through her carefully styled hair, loosening it into soft waves.
And it was true—she had chosen this life.
In her youth, she had been the most beautiful girl in town, and n had flocked to her like moths to a fla. But Karl Davies had stood out among them all.
At just 20 years old, he was already the mayor of their city, a rising star in the political world. He wasn’t just promising; he was a dream fulfilled.
Marrying him had been an easy choice. He was charming, ambitious, and driven, offering a life of security and success.
They had built a family together—three beautiful children: one boy and two girls. Their life was perfect, or so it seed.
And yet, as she stood there now, wiping her hands with a plush towel, she couldn’t ignore the restlessness stirring inside her.
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