The Billionaire’s Broken Contract

Chapter 9: The Panic Attack

Riley's POV

The crystal chandelier above the dinner table seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, growing brighter and more menacing by the second. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my heart race like a trapped bird.

"Are you paying attention, Riley?" Brett's voice sounded distant.

I tried to focus on the conversation around the table, blinking hard to clear my vision. The words blurred together into meaningless noise. We were at another business dinner, this time at the penthouse, and Brett's associates were discussing some merger while I sat beside him like an ornament.

"I asked you a question." Brett's tone was sharp now.

The words caught in my throat as I tried to respond. "I'm sorry, I" The room felt like it was closing in, the walls pressing closer with each second.

"She looks pale," someone said from across the table.

"Is she drunk?" another voice asked, followed by cruel laughter that echoed in my ears.

I couldn't breathe. My chest was tight, my hands were tingling, and black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

"I need... I need..." I gasped, standing abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor.

"Riley, sit down," Brett commanded.

But I couldn't. My legs were shaking, my palms were sweating, and the room was spinning around me. I gripped the edge of the table, trying to anchor myself, but everything felt unreal..

"I can't breathe," I whispered, the words barely audible.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said the beautiful lady with the ugly character who'd somehow appeared at these dinners more frequently. She rolled her eyes dramatically. "She's being dramatic again."

"Look at her," someone else laughed. "She's having a meltdown."

"Should we call someone?" a man asked, but his tone suggested he was more curious than concerned.

"Don't be ridiculous," the lady snapped, waving her manicured hand dismissively. "She's just seeking attention."

Their voices buzzed in my ears as I stumbled backward, my vision tunneling until all I could see was a small circle of light. This was it. I was dying. My heart was going to explode, and Lily would be left alone with no one to take care of her.

"Lily," I gasped. "I need to see Lily."

"She's lost it completely," the lady said with disgust. "This is what happens when you bring street trash into polite society."

The words hit m as I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling like I was falling through empty space. The familiar terror of my childhood came rushing back—the feeling of being small and helpless and completely alone.

"Please," I whispered to no one in particular, my voice breaking. "Please, I just need..."

"Everyone out." Brett's voice cut through the chaos. The room fell silent instantly.

"But Brett," the lady purred.

"Now." The single word carried such authority that I felt it in my bones.

I heard chairs scraping against hardwood, footsteps hurrying across marble, murmured complaints fading as the door closed. The room emptied except for Brett and me.

And then strong hands were on my shoulders guiding me to a chair.

"Breathe," Brett said, his voice different now. Not cold, not commanding. Almost... gentle? He crouched down beside my chair. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."

I tried to follow his instructions, but my chest felt like it was locked in a vice. Each breath was a struggle against invisible hands squeezing my ribs.

"You're not dying," he said firmly. "This is a panic attack. You're safe."

"I can't" The words came out as a broken sob.

"Yes, you can." He knelt in front of me, his gray eyes steady and calm. "Look at me, Riley just look at me."

I focused on his face, using it as an anchor in the storm of my terror.

"Count with me," he said, his voice low and soothing. "In for four, hold for four, out for four."

We breathed together, his voice guiding me through each count. Slowly, gradually, my heart began to slow. The room stopped spinning. The crushing weight on my chest started to lift.

"Better?" he asked, studying my face carefully.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Brett sat back on his heels, his expression serious. "When did this start? The panic attacks?"

"A few months ago. When we became homeless." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, embarrassed by my tears. "They're getting worse."

Brett studied me for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. "Have you seen a doctor?"

I let out a bitter laugh. "I couldn't afford one."

"You can now." He stood, brushing off his knees as his business mask began sliding back into place. "I'll have Marcus arrange something."

Relief flooded through me. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." His voice was becoming distant again. "I can't have you falling apart at every social event. It reflects poorly on me."

The coldness was back, but something felt different. For just a moment, I'd seen something else in his eyes. Something that looked almost like concern.

"Go to your room," he said, turning toward his desk and shuffling papers.. "Rest. Tomorrow we have the Morrison Industries lunch, and I need you to be functional."

I stood on shaky legs, using the chair for support. "Brett?"

He didn't look up from his papers. "What?"

"Why did you send them away? Your guests?"

"Because I don't enjoy public scenes."

"That's all?" I pressed something in his tone making me think there was more.

"That's all." His voice was final.

But as I walked to the door, my hand reaching for the handle, I heard him add quietly, almost to himself, "And because you asked for Lily."

I paused, my hand freezing on the doorknob. "What?"

"You said you needed to see your daughter." He still didn't look up, but his voice softened just slightly. "That's...that's not something someone fakes."

I turned around, but he was already back to his paperwork, his walls firmly in place. The vulnerable man who'd helped me breathe was gone, replaced by the cold businessman I knew.

"Good night, Riley."

"Good night." The words came out as a whisper.

As I closed the door behind me, I leaned against the solid wood, my mind racing. For just a few minutes, Brett had been someone else entirely. Someone who cared, who helped, who looked at me like I was a person instead of a possession.

But which version was real? The cruel master who humiliated me in front of his friends, or the man who'd knelt beside me and helped me breathe?