Chapter 397: Three Legacies: Emily and David in Trouble

The man—tall, silent, dressed in crisp black—led Emily down the hallway without a word. The corridor stretched long and dim, lit only by recessed violet strips along the baseboards that cast cold, elongated shadows.

Doors lined both sides, heavy matte-black panels with no handles on the outside, no numbers, no names.

Each one looked the

same:

thick, seamless, swallowing sound before it could even form. No bass leaked through.

Just the soft click of the worker’s polished shoes and the faint rustle of Emily’s dress against her thighs.

He stopped at the last door on the right. No knock. He simply pressed a discreet panel; the door parted with a low pneumatic sigh.

Emily hesitated. The worker gestured inside—open palm, polite but firm—then stepped aside.

She leaned forward, just enough to peek.

A wide circle of bodies

filled

the room. Girls in shimmering dresses and boys in tailored dark shirts stood or lounged around the edges. Some leaned against the expensive leather sofas that curved like crescent moons—deep

burgundy,

tufted, the kind that swallowed light and looked too soft for the tension in the air.

Others stood rigid, arms crossed. At the far end, the main sofa dominated: longer, lower, positioned like a throne.

A cluster of

cheer girls

and their orbiting boys blocked most of the view. Emily couldn’t see Paige who the man had told her was calling her.

She took one step inside.

The door closed behind her with a heavy, final thunk. The soundproofing sealed instantly—outside world gone.

"Emily."

David’s voice—raw, broken, barely human—cut through the murmur like a knife through flesh.

The circle parted, revealing the horror.

On the central sofa sat

Aiden, Anderson, and Zack

, legs spread wide, drinks in hand, expressions lazy and predatory, eyes gleaming with sadistic hunger. Danton lounged off to the side on a smaller chair, staring at his phone,

detached,

like none of this concerned him—though a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

In front of the marble table

knelt

David.

His face was pressed sideways against the polished white surface, cheek smeared with thick, congealing

blood

that dripped in slow, viscous strings to the floor, pooling in a sticky crimson stain.

One eye

swollen

completely shut, the other

bloodshot

and pleading.

His lip was split wide, exposing raw gum and shattered teeth. Nose crooked, cartilage crushed inward. Tears streaked through the red on his cheeks, mixing with snot and saliva.

His shoulders shook violently, body wracked with sobs and tremors. Bruises bloomed across his exposed arms—fresh, purple-black welts from earlier blows.

"Em—go

back," he rasped, voice cracking into a gurgle, blood bubbling from his mouth with every syllable. "Please. Just

go—they’ll...

they’ll break you—"

Click.

The

lock engaged

behind her—sharp, unmistakable, like the snap of a trap closing.

Emily’s stomach plummeted into ice. Her legs trembled uncontrollably; cold sweat drenched her back, prickling her skin like needles.

She spun toward the door, hands clawing desperately at the seamless panel, nails scraping uselessly against cold metal.

Panic surged—

heart hammering

, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Hands clamped her arms—iron vices. Two of the boys she didn’t recognize—tall, muscled lackeys with dead eyes—yanked her backward.

She twisted wildly, heels skidding and catching on the floor, dress tearing at the seams from the force.

She screamed—high, piercing—but they were stronger, merciless. Fingers dug into her flesh, bruising deep into muscle.

They

shoved

her forward with brutal force.

Her knees slammed into the edge of the marble table.

Crack.

The sound was

sickening—bone

fracturing against unyielding stone. Agony exploded white-hot up her thighs, radiating into her hips like shattered glass grinding in her joints. She screamed again, raw and guttural, tears flooding her eyes instantly, blurring the world.

Her body folded forward involuntarily, palms slapping the cold marble, nails breaking as she

clawed

for

purchase.

Breath hitched in sharp, broken sobs, each one tearing at her throat.

Aiden laughed

—low, rolling, delighted, the sound twisting like a blade in her gut.

Anderson

leaned forward, elbows on his knees, blood still glistening on his knuckles, flecked with bits of skin and tooth.

"Please guys, welcome to the table, the President of the

PheiCrush Simps herself

." His voice

dripped sarcasm

, thick and mocking, laced with venom.

He

barked

a laugh that made the others snicker—cruel, echoing jeers that filled the room like poison gas.

He stood, wiping his hands absently on his dark jeans, smearing red of David’s blood into black, leaving streaks that looked like war paint.

He stepped toward her—then

stumbled

hard over David’s

outstretched leg

, the one David hadn’t moved fast enough to pull back, his body too broken to respond.

Anderson

froze.

Face darkened to a storm.

He looked down at the limb like it had personally spat in his face.

Then he

kicked—hard,

repeatedly.

The toe of his shoe drove into

David’s shin

with a dull thud, then again into his thigh, his

ribs—

crack

after crack

echoing as bones gave way.

David’s body jerked with each impact, a choked, wet scream escaping his throat, blood spraying from his lips in fine mist.

Not satisfied, Anderson bent low, grabbed David’s

collar

with both hands, yanked his head up off the table with a violent

wrench

that made David’s neck crack audibly. David’s

eyes rolled

back, unfocused, blood bubbling thickly from the corner of his mouth, foaming red.

Anderson

drew back and punched

—

once, twice, three times, vicious,

knuckles cracking against teeth, jaw, cheekbone.

David’s head snapped

sideways with each blow. Teeth clattered across the marble like scattered dice, blood arcing in sprays.

His body

convulsed,

then went limp instantly, slumping forward, unconscious, face planting back onto the table with a wet,

crunching smack

that smeared more

gore

across the white surface.

"Whoa!!!"

The two boys flanking the sofa whooped, fists pumping, cheering like it was a fucking game. "Get him, Anderson! Fuck yeah!"

Anderson exhaled through his nose, shook out his hand

—now raw and split at the knuckles

—then turned, eyes locking on the shivering Emily with predatory

gleam.

He dropped onto the sofa right beside where Emily’s face rested against the marble, her tears mixing with David’s blood on the cold stone.

One hand shot out, fingers twisting

viciously into her hair

,

yanking

her head up—sharp, merciless, strands ripping from her scalp in clumps.

She gasped, scalp burning like fire, fresh tears streaming.

He studied her face—close, too close, breath hot and reeking of whiskey against her skin. His eyes

roamed

over her features like he was appraising meat, lingering on her trembling lips, her wide, terrified eyes.

"Even among all these paradise princesses," he murmured, almost reverent but twisted with malice, "a commoner like you... you’re still beautiful. Pathetic little slut."

His tongue slid out—slow, deliberate, thick and slimy. He dragged it from the point of her chin, up the line of her jaw, all the way to the shell of her ear—wet, hot, disgusting, leaving a trail of saliva that dripped down her neck.

He pressed harder,

grinding

his tongue against her skin like he was tasting her fear.

"You

JERK!"

Emily

jerked away

despite the tearing agony in her scalp, more hair

ripping

free.

Her free hand flashed up—

CRACK!

—

open palm connecting hard

across his cheek, nails raking shallow furrows in his skin.

The room stilled, tension snapping like a wire.

Anderson’s head rocked sideways. A red imprint bloomed instantly, thin lines of blood welling from the scratches.

Then he turned back—slow, eyes black with rage.