The Heiress's Comeback-Chapter 412: [ Volume 1] Chaper 411- madwoman.

But Esme stopped. Just like that. Because, for God’s sake, it was like the whole world had conspired against her. One moment, she was smugly mocking her hunter, enjoying the chase. The next? A towering wall loomed before her, cutting off the tunnel completely.

Oh, and before anyone suggested it—no, she couldn’t just punch through it. Even if she tried, she knew this thing was built to withstand time, floods, and disasters. It wasn’t going anywhere. And besides, who knew what nightmares lurked on the other side?

With a slow exhale, Esme turned on her heel, her gaze sweeping over the women who had been tailing her. They stood there, watching her with amused grins, clearly enjoying her predicament.

"Oh? Tired already?" one of them cooed, tilting her head mockingly. "Do you need a break?"

Esme blinked, then let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off invisible dust. Then, with the same light-hearted arrogance, she placed a hand on her hip and smirked.

"What can I say?" she drawled, tossing her hair back. "My morning runs are more than enough for me. Unlike you lot, I don’t need to sprint around to maintain my figure." She took a step closer, her voice dropping into an exaggerated whisper. "You see, I’m already hot enough."

She winked. Just because she could.

Esme knew what she was about to do would bring her unbearable pain. But what choice did she have? What did it matter if her life was cut short—by an hour, a day? The people she had just broken... they were not ordinary. And if she had even two more days to live, she could bring this entire organization crumbling down.

That was her only goal.

She understood her body better than anyone else. Every ounce of power she had used had chipped away at her existence, pulling her deeper into the abyss. She was sinking, and there was no stopping it.

She might not even have six months. Seven at most, if she was lucky. But luck had never been on her side.

So why bother trying to survive?

Esme never asked to see her children’s faces. Not once. Not from Ray, not from anyone. She never sought out their photos, never allowed herself to wonder what they truly looked like. Because if she did—if she let even the smallest glimpse of them slip through the cracks of her resolve—she knew she would falter. She would wish to live.

She could have left. Taken Ray and the children, fled to some distant place where no one knew them. She could have run to the police, sought protection, carved out a quiet, safe existence. But the moment she woke from her coma, she knew that path was never an option. Her body had weakened, yes—on the surface, it wasn’t obvious, but inside, in the very core of her being, she felt it. Her soul was eroding. Dying. And if she saw them—her children, the pieces of herself she had given life to—she would break. She would want to stay. She would be foolish enough to cling to the hope of surviving.

That’s why she never went to see Helga and Aron. Because those two, from the moment they had been young, could look at her and know. They could see right through her. They wouldn’t need words or explanations; a single glance, and they would understand the truth buried inside her. Why? She never knew. Some people just had that connection. And she feared it.

She hid behind her golden-eyed mask, letting no one see the real her. But even that could not shield her from the truth. Her black eyes were fading, their color draining away. Her vision blurred, her clarity slipping, and slowly—painfully—her golden eyes consumed what was left of her natural sight.

"Golden eyes are beautiful," they had told her. "They suit you."

Fools.

They didn’t understand. The golden eyes weren’t hers. They were Beom’s. A mark of his power overtaking her, a slow, merciless domination of her very being. The more her golden eyes spread, the closer she edged toward losing herself. If not for her sheer willpower, she would have already fallen—lost to the intoxicating pull of power, drowning in a force beyond her control.

Yes, Beom was loyal. A protector, a beast bound to her. But that did not change what he was—a beast. And a beast’s instincts could never be fully caged, no matter how much she willed it. That was the reason why, centuries ago, humans bound beasts to them. Not for companionship, not for trust—but for control. To stop them from destroying everything in their wake. The bond was a leash, a tether, meant to keep the balance.

But bonds were fickle. If the owner faltered, if their willpower wavered for even a moment, the roles could reverse. The leash could shift, the control could slip. And when that happened, the one who was supposed to be the master would become the slave.

There were countless stories—warnings—of those who had lost themselves to their beasts. The power-hungry fools who, in their greed for immortality and strength, allowed their beasts to consume them. And when that happened, they lost more than their humanity.

They lost everything.

Esme’s eyes shone with determination, and in the next instant, Beom lunged at the enemy with lightning speed. But they were no weaklings. One by one, their eyes gleamed crimson, and behind them, their divine beasts materialized.

A ferocious-looking raccoon snarled, a mongoose bristled with hostility, a black cobra coiled menacingly, and a white fox stood poised with cunning grace. Two hyenas, eerily synchronized, observed the battlefield with unnerving calm, their presence a testament to the strange bond they shared.

As if on cue, all of them lunged at Beom. The battlefield erupted into chaos as colossal beasts clashed, their roars and growls reverberating through the air. The battle was brutal, each strike sending shockwaves through the ground. But the fight was not just between the beasts—their owners had also joined the fray.