Tethered to His Heartbeat

Since I was a kid, I’ve been a golden retriever in human form—blessed with a rare, relentless brand of optimism. A walking dopamine machine. That was until Wyatt Landry, a billionaire worth hundreds of billions, signed me to live in his sprawling estate. My daily allowance was one hundred thousand dollars. My sole KPI? Just stay happy. You see, Wyatt suffered from severe, treatment-resistant clinical depression. He lived perpetually on the edge of a precipice, always one bad day away from the roof. But somehow, our emotions became linked. As long as I was giggling, he felt the world was worth living in. The moment my mouth curved downward, he was looking for a rope. Last month, the male lead in my favorite TV drama died, and I let out a couple of genuine, heart-wrenching sobs. At that exact moment, in the middle of a high-stakes board meeting, Wyatt broke down in uncontrollable tears. The terrified executives spent three hundred million dollars overnight just to force the production team to shoot an alternate resurrection ending. From that day on, my happiness became the company’s highest classified secret. Until Wyatt went on an overseas business trip. That was when Isabel Caldwell—who fancied herself his rightful fiancée—marched into my walk-in closet with a flock of bodyguards. “What kind of garbage are you to spend Wyatt’s money just to keep yourself amused? It’s time someone taught you some manners!” She sneered, snatching a rare, limited-edition figurine from my hands and smashing it to pieces. Then she reached for the front-row concert tickets of my favorite artist, preparing to rip them to shreds. Staring at the broken pieces on the floor, I broke down and sobbed. The second my tears fell, I could almost hear the heavy, exhausted sigh from across the ocean—Wyatt stepping onto the ledge of a skyscraper, completely done with this world. Oh, God. This woman wasn’t just destroying my toys. She was about to destroy her future husband’s life. 1 I forced myself to stop crying. As soon as the first tear escaped, my entire body went rigid. Wyatt was wishing for death again. I reached down and clamped my nails deep into the flesh of my inner thigh, hard enough to draw blood. I gritted my teeth and forced a stiff, unnatural grin onto my face. “What are you smiling at?” Isabel demanded. She ground her designer stiletto heel into the shattered remains of my collectible figurine, the plastic crunching under her weight. “I smash your things and you laugh? Are you mocking me? Laughing because you think I don’t have the authority to put you in your place, or because you think I can’t touch you?” I’m trying to save your fiancé’s life. But I couldn’t say it. I just kept up my stupid, vacant smile. The emotional link was a Tier-S classified secret, a clause baked into my contract with Wyatt. If the public found out, the entire Landry corporate empire would implode overnight. “Miss Caldwell, you’ve got it all wrong,” I squeaked. “Wyatt and I… we don’t have that kind of relationship.” “He lets me live here because—” “Because why? Because you’re cheap?” Isabel spat, stepping closer. “Wyatt and I grew up together. Our families have had an understanding since we were children. Who do you think you are? A nobody with no family name, living in his mansion and spending his money?” She waved a manicured hand toward the closet. “Pack up everything she owns. Every single thing. Throw it in boxes and get it out of here.” “Don’t leave a trace.” Four hulking bodyguards in dark suits pushed past her, tearing through my drawers and cabinets. I didn’t try to stop them. Clothes could be replaced. A life couldn’t. “Miss Caldwell, I strongly suggest you stop this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “If you make me unhappy, something terrible will happen to Wyatt.” Isabel blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, before bursting into a harsh, mocking laugh. “Oh, please! Listen to yourself. He’ll get hurt if you get upset? Who do you think you are? You think you control his heartbeat?” She rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable. The lies you gold-diggers spin get more pathetic by the day.” I thought back to a company retreat last year. A vice president named Mr. Gallagher had made a snide remark, calling me a useless trophy ornament. It was a single sentence, but it made my eyes sting with tears for all of three seconds. Just three seconds. Wyatt had smashed his glass in his office, stormed out, and confronted Gallagher directly. By that evening, Gallagher was committed to a psychiatric facility, stripped of every asset and title. His entire family spent two days kneeling in the rain outside the Landry headquarters, begging for mercy. “Cut the act,” Isabel said, snatching the concert tickets from my hand and ripping them down the middle, letting the confetti-like pieces flutter down onto my face. “I am the sole heiress to the Caldwell Group. My father holds fifteen percent of Landry stock. You think a creature like you can compete with me?” She leaned in, her breath cold against my ear. “I’m cleaning house for Wyatt today. If you have any sense left in that empty head of yours, you’ll pack up and crawl out of here on your own. Otherwise, I will make your life a living hell.” Suddenly, the sound of frantic, heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. “Miss Caldwell! Stop! Please!” 2 Franklin, Wyatt’s chief of staff, burst into the room, drenched in sweat, his tie completely askew. The moment his eyes found the tear track on my cheek, his face drained of all color. In his trembling hand, his phone screen flashed with real-time biometric data streamed from overseas. Wyatt’s heart rate had plunged to forty-two beats per minute. “Miss—Miss Caldwell, you can’t touch Nora. I beg of you,” Franklin panted, practically gasping for air. “If she’s unhappy… Mr. Landry… he really will…” “He’ll what? Fly back across the ocean to strike me?” Isabel raised an eyebrow, amused. “He barely even looks at you people. You think you can use his name to scare me?” “No, you don’t understand—” Franklin’s face flushed a deep, terrified purple. His lips trembled, but the words died in his throat. He couldn’t break the non-disclosure agreement. “I’m begging you.” With a dull thud, Franklin dropped to his knees, his forehead hitting the marble floor. “Just let Miss Webb watch a funny video. Ten minutes. That’s all she needs to reset. Please, Miss Caldwell, this is a matter of life and death.” Isabel looked down at him, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across her lips. “An employee, kneeling on the floor, begging me to let some mistress watch comedy videos? What exactly is the relationship between the two of you?” “Are you sleeping together? Huh? Shacking up in Wyatt’s mansion behind his back?” “No! That’s not true! Don’t say such things—” “I’m lying?” Isabel kicked Franklin away. “Wyatt goes out of town and you show up. She cries and you’re on your knees. Who would believe you’re innocent?” She nodded toward her bodyguards. “Break his leg. Use that golf club over there.” One of the guards reached into the umbrella stand and pulled out a carbon-fiber driver. Franklin didn’t run. He couldn’t. The club swung down, connecting with his shin with a sickening crack. He collapsed, letting out a guttural scream of pure agony. “Stop! Please, stop!” I lunged forward to intervene, but a bodyguard shoved me back. My head struck the sharp corner of the wardrobe. The pain was instant. Fresh tears welled up in my eyes. Franklin lay on the floor, his face covered in blood, panting heavily. He didn’t beg for himself. Instead, he threw his arms around the bodyguard’s leg to hold him back, turned his swollen, bloodshot eyes toward me, and gasped out: “Nora! Think of something happy! I beg you! Anything! Just smile!” Isabel frowned. “Psycho,” she muttered. She knelt down, tapping Franklin’s bloody cheek with two fingers. “Since you’re so eager to protect this trash, you can join her.” She stood up and smoothed her cuffs. “Drag them both down to the basement storage room. Lock them in.” “Not a drop of water, not a scrap of food, until I say so.” 3 The basement storage room was deep underground, damp, dark, and smelling of rust and mildew. The guards threw me onto the cold concrete floor and slammed the heavy iron door shut, bolting it from the outside. Instantly, we were plunged into pitch-black darkness. I had been terrified of confined spaces since I was a little girl. My heart began to hammer against my ribs; my breathing grew shallow and rapid, and my hands turned ice-cold. My panic and despair were radiating straight across the globe to Wyatt. Right now, he must be standing somewhere high, the wind whipping around him, looking down at the pavement. No. I shoved my hand into my mouth, biting down on my own skin to stifle the tears. You can’t be afraid. You can’t cry. If you cry, he dies. CLANG. The iron door was kicked open a crack, letting in a sliver of blinding light. It was Dr. Evans, Wyatt’s private psychiatrist, clutching a medical kit. “Nora’s emotional telemetry has bottomed out!” he yelled, trying to push his way in. “If we don’t intervene now, Mr. Landry’s heart will stop!” But before he could take another step, the head housekeeper, who had been bribed by Isabel, blocked his path. “Who let you down here? Miss Caldwell gave strict orders. No one gets near them.” “She’s going to die! Mr. Landry is going to die!” Dr. Evans was shaking with rage and fear. The housekeeper pushed him back with cold indifference. “I don’t dare disobey Miss Caldwell. Your threats don’t work on me.” The door slammed shut again. The chains rattled into place. Darkness once more. I don’t know how much time passed before the door opened for the third time. Isabel walked down the stairs, her heels clicking softly. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Well, this filthy hole certainly suits someone of your background.” Behind her, the housekeeper held a stainless-steel dog bowl. Inside was sour, leftover food, gray gravy skin forming on top, with flies beginning to circle. “I heard you lose your mind if you miss a meal?” Isabel knelt, catching my chin in her tight grip. “Eat up. Consider it a gift.” She shoved the bowl toward my face. The rancid smell hit my nose, and I gagged, tears spilling over. “Crying again?” Isabel scoffed. She stood up and dusted off her hands. “If you think I’m treating you poorly, let me add a little garnish.” The housekeeper grabbed the back of my head and slammed my face down into the bowl. The sour, rotting liquid rushed up my nose and into my mouth. The taste of decay filled my throat. I thrashed, choking and gasping for air, as my vision began to vignette. Just then, a loud crash of breaking glass echoed from upstairs. It was Dr. Evans’ voice, shrill and completely hysterical: “The team overseas just called! Mr. Landry is on the roof!” “They said he’s already slapped himself seventeen times! His face is unrecognizable!” “If we don’t stop this, he’s going to jump!” A cold dread washed over me. Seventeen times. I lifted my head, staring at Isabel through the grime. “You think you’re torturing me,” I whispered. “But you’re killing Wyatt.” “If he dies, you have nothing.” Isabel tilted her head, cupping her ear. “What was that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” “I said—” A heavy, stinging slap cut me off. “Don’t you dare speak his name, you filthy bitch!” Isabel’s eyes were bloodshot, filled with a wild, manic rage. “He was perfectly fine before he met you! If anyone should die, it’s you!” She stood up, her stiletto heel coming down hard on my fingers, grinding them into the concrete. “Tomorrow, I’m bringing people over to see what kind of creature Wyatt has been keeping.” “I want everyone to see what you really are.” She patted her hair into place. “Wash her up. Put her in something presentable.” “I want my friends to see exactly how cheap Wyatt’s little pet really is.” 4 The next morning, the sun was bright, but not a single ray reached the basement. When the housekeeper dragged me up to the living room, the space was already filled with people. Seven or eight young heiresses, dressed in designer clothes, sat around the coffee table, which was laden with fruit platters and afternoon tea. “This is her? This is the woman Wyatt Landry has been hiding?” A girl with dusty-pink hair leaned forward, looking me up and down with a sneer. “She looks like a stray. Even my cleaning lady dresses better than this.” Another girl, wearing oversized sunglasses, laughed as she cracked open a melon seed. “I heard she didn’t even finish high school. Used to sell roasted sweet potatoes on the street corner.” “Oh my god, seriously? When did Wyatt’s taste get so… municipal?” I stood in the center of the room, my head hung low, letting them dissect me. Isabel sat in the center of the plush sofa, her legs crossed. She beckoned me with a finger. “Come here.” “Kneel.” I didn’t move. “Are you deaf?” A bodyguard kicked me hard from behind, right in the back of my knees. I crashed onto the marble floor, the impact sending a shudder of pain through my kneecaps. Isabel smiled thinly. “Girls, Wyatt was so insistent that I take good care of her while he was away. And you know what? The more he talked about her, the more curious I got.” She leaned forward, her voice carrying across the room. “Whoever makes her cry and beg for mercy today gets the exclusive shipping contracts for the Caldwell Group’s southwest region next year.” Silence fell over the room for a brief second. Then, the pink-haired girl stood up. “Mind if I go first?” Isabel waved her hand generously. “Be my guest.” The girl walked over, stared down at me for a moment, and delivered a sharp slap to my left cheek. The sharp edge of her diamond ring sliced my skin. A bead of blood welled up and ran down my jawline, dripping onto my collar. I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t dare. If I cried, Wyatt would break down sobbing in some high-profile international boardroom. The European investors, waiting for any sign of weakness, would realize that the head of the Landry empire was unstable. I had to endure it. The slaps kept coming. When one grew tired, another took her place. They slapped my face, pinched my arms, and jabbed the backs of my hands with dessert forks. I clamped my jaw shut, absorbing the pain, refusing to let a single tear fall. But then, the girl in the sunglasses reached for the faded, dirty string around my neck. My pupils dilated. Attached to the string was a small, tattered rag doll, its paint long since peeled away. My grandmother had sewn it for me from scraps of old cloth before she passed away. Inside its belly, instead of cotton, was a tiny, cheap recording chip. Before she closed her eyes for the last time, she had pressed the record button one last time: “Don’t cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile.” It was the only thing I had left of her. It was the sole anchor of my happiness. “What is this garbage?” the girl sneered, ripping the doll off my neck. “Just a filthy piece of trash. Throw it away.” She tossed it casually. It flew through the air and landed right at Isabel’s feet. “No!” I lunged forward, my knees scraping against the marble, leaving a smear of blood behind. But just as my fingers brushed the string— Isabel’s stiletto heel came down on the doll. “So precious to you?” She picked it up by the string, pressing its belly. My grandmother’s raspy, tender voice drifted out of the worn fabric. “Don’t cry, my sweet girl. Grandma will always be here to make you smile…” “Oh my god, that is so tacky!” “Creepy!” “Please,” I sobbed, dropping my forehead to the floor. I banged my head against the marble over and over, the sound echoing through the room as blood began to trickle down my face. “That’s from my grandmother. It’s all I have left of her. Please, take anything else. Just leave me that.” “I’m begging you.” Isabel looked down at my bleeding forehead, her expression entirely devoid of warmth. “You know, an orphan looks quite beautiful when she’s begging.” She smiled. And then, right in front of my eyes, she ground her heel down into the doll’s chest. CRACK. The fabric tore. The stuffing spilled out onto the floor, and the tiny voice chip was crushed into plastic dust. The gentle voice—”Don’t cry, my sweet…”—cut off mid-word. I froze. The sound was gone. The light was gone. The warmth was gone. The part of me that was capable of feeling joy withered and died in that exact second. Isabel looked at me, hollowed out and limp on the floor, and clapped her hands together. She turned to a tripod setup nearby, waving at the live broadcast stream on her phone. “See, girls? She’s nothing but a cheap toy. Wyatt really lost his mind—” Before she could finish, a deafening roar shook the villa. A helicopter was hovering dangerously low outside. Heavier than the wind, the grand double doors and the massive floor-to-ceiling glass panes shattered inward. Before the shards even touched the floor, a man covered in dried blood, his designer suit shredded with blade cuts, charged through the cloud of dust. Wyatt. The heiresses shrieked, scattering in terror. Isabel froze, then quickly tried to put on a worried face, stepping toward him. “Wyatt! You’re back! Oh my god, you’re bleeding! Who did this to you—” Wyatt didn’t look at her. His bloodshot eyes were locked entirely on the motionless, bloody figure in the center of the room. He shoved Isabel out of his way. He didn’t yell. He didn’t strike anyone. His legs shook violently as he walked toward me. And then, with a heavy, hollow sound, he fell to his knees. The master of a multi-billion-dollar empire, kneeling before a broken girl covered in blood and filth. With a trembling, bleeding hand, he reached behind his back and drew a silver utility knife. He pressed the blade directly against his own throat, right over the pulsing carotid artery. Wyatt looked up at me, his face drenched in tears. His body was shaking with uncontrollable tremors. He looked into my empty, hollow eyes, and forced his lips into a wide, terrifyingly distorted smile. “Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Smile for me.” “Or… just kill me.” “I can’t… I can’t hold on anymore…”

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