THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 109: No Pulse... He’s dead.

Chapter 109: No Pulse... He’s dead.

He started choking. Even as he struggled, she didn’t stop.

"Would you steady..." Trish muttered under her breath, focused only on pouring the drugs down his throat. Her hands shook, but she didn’t stop. It was either this, or all of them went down together.

The boy weakly tried to push her away. His arms trembled with effort, but Miguel still held his head steady, forcing his mouth open.

His dull cry barely escaped his throat as he fought for air, but no one cared enough to stop.

Then his body jolted.

He convulsed violently. His limbs kicked and thrashed against the floor, his chest rising and falling uncontrollably as his whole body seized up.

His fingers curled in tight, twitching, and his eyes widened in terror.

A thin stream of foam bubbled from his mouth, spilling down his chin and onto the floor. The powder followed, streaking his lips, staining the carpet.

His body burned up, feverish and flushed. He couldn’t breathe.

Trish stumbled backward, the drink slipping from her hand.

"No... no, what’s happening?" she gasped, her voice cracking with panic. "What’s going on?!"

"He’s... he’s dying," Lauren croaked from where she sat, her voice hoarse and weak.

Even if she had done terrible things, the sight of seeing the boy’s body twisting on the floor, made her sick.

No one moved.

Miguel backed away, his face pale and distant. His hands trembled as he grabbed his boots off the floor, stepping further away from the boy. His mind raced — he knew exactly how this looked. And he knew exactly who would get blamed.

The others panicked.

The girls screamed and scrambled out of the room, shoving past each other in their rush to escape.

But Trish froze. She couldn’t look away from him. His eyes had locked on hers, wide, pleading, terrified. His hand reached out, trembling, begging for help.

Then it dropped. His arm fell limp at his side, his chest still.

Heather yanked softly at the cuffs around her wrist, but they didn’t budge. The metal bit deeper into her skin as she strained. The sounds around her were disorientated and dull.

"Someone help him! Please, he’s not gone yet!" one of the other girls cried.

But no one listened.

Viktor approached the boy, his footsteps heavy across the carpet. He crouched beside him, pressed two fingers to the boy’s neck, checking for a pulse. His face remained cold, unreadable.

"No pulse," he confirmed flatly. "He’s dead."

Trish collapsed to her knees, her face pale as shock washed over her. She turned away, vomiting into her hands.

Her chest heaved uncontrollably as realization hit her—he was really dead. She had killed him.

Viktor grabbed her arm, steadying her roughly.

"We leave. Now," he ordered, her arms was weak under his grip.

But her eyes were still locked on the boy’s lifeless body. His limbs twisted at odd angles.

His lips stained with foam and drugs. His wide, glassy eyes frozen open.

"Trish," Viktor snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Look at me. We. Leave. Now."

She nodded weakly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. But before she followed him out, her eyes drifted back to the scene one last time.

The body. The drugs still sitting on the table. The broken boy on the floor.

She whimpered softly, her voice barely a whisper as she looked at Heather who was zoning in and out of reality.

There was nothing left to say or something she could fix.

She turned away and left the room.

Miguel lingered behind, staring at the boy’s pale, lifeless body. Unlike Trish, he felt nothing—not fear or regret. Only cold calculation.

"I can’t be here," Miguel muttered, turning toward the door. But then he paused. "Lauren, aren’t you coming?"

Lauren hadn’t moved. She stood frozen, wide-eyed, staring at the body on the floor. Everything happened so fast, too fast. They had come here to party, to mess with Heather. Now someone was dead.

"Lauren!" Miguel barked. "Snap out of it! We need to leave."

Lauren finally tore her eyes away from the body and looked at Heather.

"You have to unlock the cuffs," she whispered.

"Where are the keys?!" Miguel snapped.

Lauren’s hands were empty. She stared at them in disbelief.

"I... I had them..."

Miguel’s voice grew sharper. "Then where the hell are they?"

Heather’s eyes opened again. She could hear muffled voices, but nothing felt real. Her chest heaved as she fought to stay conscious this time. Her limbs were weak, her vision blurred.

"Where are the keys, Lauren?"

Lauren’s voice broke. "I had them... I swear..."

Miguel tore through the room, searching.

"We are wasting time. The car is ready," Viktor called from the hall.

Miguel turned back toward Heather, watching as her head lolled against the couch. Her eyes had fluttered shut again, her breathing shallow but steady. She was out cold.

He exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders.

"I’m sorry," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. "We have to go."

Before he could step away, Lauren’s voice cut through the quiet.

"I found the key!"

Miguel froze.

He turned to her slowly, his eyes narrowing as he saw the small silver key dangling from her fingers.

His heart skipped, but then settled almost immediately.

She actually found it.

A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had spent a solid minute shoving that useless fake key deep under the couch.

His fingers had scraped the floorboards just to make sure it looked like it had fallen by accident. And she actually crawled around looking for it.

But he wasn’t worried. That key wouldn’t open a damn thing.

"Good," he said simply, hiding his amusement. "You can uncuff her now."

Lauren didn’t move right away. She looked toward Heather, her expression unreadable.

Her heels clicked softly as she walked over, standing above the unconscious woman.

Miguel watched her carefully, arms crossed over his chest, but he already knew what was going through Lauren’s head.

This wasn’t hesitation.

Lauren crouched down, leaning in close, tilting Heather’s face gently with her hand.

Her fingers pressed against Heather’s jaw, turning her head side to side, checking her pupils, the shallow rise of her chest.

"She’s really gone," Lauren whispered to herself.

Satisfied, she stood, slipping the useless key into her palm. Miguel tracked every movement, but didn’t interrupt.

Lauren’s expression darkened as she turned toward the corner of the room.

Her heels tapped against the floor as she made her way to the small vent along the baseboard.

Without a second of hesitation, she dropped the key inside. It rattled faintly as it disappeared down into the metal grating, out of reach.

She wasn’t going to save anyone tonight.

And Miguel couldn’t blame her.

Heather thought she could just waltz into this world, threaten everything Lauren built, everything she sacrificed, and come out clean?

Miguel’s jaw clenched as he looked at Heather, still unconscious, cuffed to the table like some helpless little victim. Did she really think she could take from Lauren? From him?

The very woman who saved him when no one else in this industry gave a damn?

When his reputation was shredded, when the fake stories piled up, when the vultures circled — Lauren had pulled him out of it. She gave him purpose. Gave him her loyalty and her protection.

And he wasn’t about to throw that away for some naive girl playing hero.

Lauren turned back toward him, her face dark and emotionless.

"On second thought..." she muttered, eyeing Heather one last time.

She walked to the door, her hand lingering on the knob.

"No."

With that, she pulled the door shut behind her with a hard slam, leaving Heather alone.

Miguel didn’t follow right away. He lingered, staring at Heather’s limp body, the cuffs biting into her wrists, the faint bruises on her skin. She looked small and pathetic.

For a brief second, something inside him stirred — the memory of what it felt like to be powerless. How easy it was to get crushed out here when no one had your back.

But then that second passed.

Heather wasn’t his responsibility.

His loyalty was with Lauren. Always had been. Always would be.

He adjusted his collar, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.