Money Makes a Man's Regret

By then, the burglars had lost all patience. One of them yanked Margaret by the hair and slammed her onto the floor with brutal force.

"You old woman! Aren't you supposed to be some billionaire's mother? And yet, you're not even worth ten million dollars? What are you good for?"

Margaret cried out as pain ripped through her scalp while her body writhed against the ground.

"Jess, run! Run now!"

Even in the face of terror, Margaret kept urging me to escape.

But her agonized screams did the opposite—they didn't paralyze me with fear. Instead, they fueled my courage. I sprang to my feet, determined to snatch her away from them.

"Agh!" Before I could even reach Margaret, another burglar shoved me hard from behind.

My head slammed against the sharp edge of a table, and blood gushed out instantly.

"You shameless woman! Are you trying to fight back?"

Through the haze of pain and crimson, I saw the burglar grab a heavy ashtray. He raised it high before bringing it down on my fingers again and again until I heard the sickening snap of bones.

The searing pain sent me into unconsciousness multiple times, but each time, Margaret's cries yanked me back to the surface.

When the burglars finally got tired of beating me, another one grabbed Margaret and flung her to the other side of the room. Then, he pulled out his phone and started a live stream.

Their voices were cruel and heartbreaking.

"They say seeing is believing, right? Since a phone call isn't enough, let's start a live stream and let that bastard witness it for himself!

"I refuse to believe a man that rich would sit back and do nothing while his own mother and wife suffer!"

That day, two headlines dominated social media.

First, a 60-year-old woman was livestreamed undressed during a hostage situation. Second, the business mogul Henry Larson had announced his engagement.

Both trended at the top, neck and neck, flooding every corner of the internet.

Henry was all smiles in the video as he gently stroked Derrick's head.

Facing the media, he declared, "That's all for today, everyone. The interview is over. Derrick is tired, and Beth and I need to take him to rest."

Bethany lowered her gaze, and a soft smile tugged at her lips as she said, "Henry has always been like this. Family always comes first for him."

Meanwhile, back in the hostage room, the burglars had torn Margaret's shirt from her body, leaving bruises in the wake of their hands.

They shoved her toward the camera like a prop, laughing and treating her suffering like entertainment.

My head was pinned to the ground beneath the burglar's foot, and blood and tears streamed as I watched the scene unfold helplessly.

Margaret's screams gradually faded from desperate cries of "Don't touch me!" and "Henry, save me!" to incoherent whimpers.

Her eyes lost focus, and she started to drool.

The live stream was flooded with comments. "This is sickening! That poor woman!"

"Someone help her! The burglars said they'd release her if her son shows up, right?"

"People on the internet, find her son! Hurry!"

The burglar kicked Margaret's limp body aside and sneered.

"Well, old woman, looks like your precious billionaire son doesn't give a damn about you. In that case…"

Then, without hesitation, he raised a knife and drove it toward Margaret's throat.

My body seized with terror, and I pleaded desperately.

I struggled, thrashed, and screamed. "Please! Please, let her go! Take me instead! I'll give you whatever you want! Just don't hurt her!"

Blood bubbled up my throat, spilling onto the floor as I choked on my sobs. A hard slap sent my head snapping to the side, and warm liquid dripped from my ear.

Soon, the air stank of blood.

Margaret, barely clinging to consciousness, turned her empty gaze toward me after hearing my cries. And even then, she tried to comfort me.

"Jess, don't cry. I'm okay. Don't be scared, sweetheart…"

I felt like I was going insane. Her voice sent an unbearable chill through my bones.

But I couldn't afford to break.

Margaret was already 65 years old. She should have been enjoying her golden years, surrounded by love, not enduring this inhuman torment.

Tears mixed with blood as they slid down my face.

I forced my voice to stay steady. "Margaret, I'm right here with you. Don't be afraid."

Abruptly, Margaret flashed a smile at me. That smile shattered me completely.

The burglar chuckled. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he plunged the knife downward.

"Useless old woman!"

In that split second, a force beyond reason and fear took over me. I lunged, shoving Margaret aside—just as the blade buried itself deep into my throat.

Blood gushed like a fountain.

So this was what dying feels like—numb, almost distant.

Even when the knife was pulled out, I bit back my sobs, forcing myself to stay silent.

I couldn't let Margaret know how much it hurt. I needed her to know that I was still with her.

Before I closed my eyes, memories flickered before me.

I saw the day Henry proposed—how he bought a cruise named after me, knelt at my feet, and swore lifelong devotion as he slid the ring called "Eternal Love" onto my finger.

Then, on our wedding day, Henry swore over and over that he would always take care of me.

And then, Bethany. After she returned from abroad, she set one trap after another—dragging me, step by step, into ruin.