“R-ryle,” I whispered. “Baby, come with Mama. We are going home.”
He looked at me like I was a ghost. Then he dropped to his knees so fast the tray crashed to the floor.
“No!” he cried, shaking. “I cannot leave. Please do not make me leave. I will stay. I will serve Mr. Vanderbilt and Ms. Cooper. I am loyal. I will work harder. Please do not punish me.”
He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to the ground.
I felt my heart tear open.
My husband watched.
My sister looked away.
And the man who destroyed me smiled like he owned everything I loved.
When I saw Ryle’s face up close, I froze.
He was shaking. Not crying. Not yelling. Just small and quiet, like fear had already hollowed him out.
He was only eight.
Eight fucking years old!
How could a child look like this?
As he kept bowing, his sleeves slid up. I finally saw it. Dark bruises layered over old ones. Thin scars crossing his arms. When he tilted his head, my stomach dropped.
Marks.
Clear marks around his neck. Like a leash.
I rushed forward and grabbed his shoulders. “Ryle, baby, get up. You do not have to kneel! Mama is here.”
The second my hands touched him, he panicked. He slapped himself. Hard. Again and again.