My son texted me a week before New Year's Eve: “Dad, don't come. It's dangerous.”

Waiting those ten minutes was the hardest thing I had ever done.

I sat on the cold floor beside Wyatt, gently holding his hand. I didn't dare touch his knee; the damage was horrific, the swelling a deep, angry purple.

Every time footsteps passed over the floorboards above us, Wyatt flinched. The psychological torture had run far deeper than the physical trauma.

"How long, Wyatt?" I asked quietly.

"Two weeks," he whispered, his eyes distant. "Started with the drinks. She drugged me. Woke up chained down here. Irving came down... brought the hammer. Said it was time I paid them for elevating my social status."

My blood boiled. They thought Wyatt was a newly wealthy, naive businessman they could manipulate and bleed dry. They thought his working-class father was an embarrassment to be kept out of sight.

Sabrina watched us from the corner, her eyes darting furiously, muffled grunts escaping the gag. She was trying to loosen the zip-ties, but they were industrial strength.

Then, the back door of the mechanical room clicked open.

Four men in dark tactical clothing moved into the basement with zero noise. Marcus stepped forward, taking in the scene in a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed when he saw Wyatt's leg, and then shot over to the bound woman in the corner.

"Medical is right behind us, sir," Marcus whispered, gesturing to the door.

Two men carrying a stretcher and trauma kits hurried in. They immediately set to work on Wyatt, administering a high-grade painkiller and carefully cutting away the chain with silent hydraulic bolt cutters.

"Thank God," Wyatt breathed as the painkillers finally hit his system, his eyes fluttering shut.

"We need to transport him immediately, Mr. Yates," the lead medic said. "This requires emergency surgery, or he'll lose the leg."

"Get him to the private wing at St. Jude's. Tell Dr. Aris I am paying out of pocket for the entire floor. Total privacy," I commanded.

They loaded my son onto the stretcher and carried him out into the cold night air, vanishing as quickly as they had arrived.

I turned back to Marcus. "Are the exits secured?"

"Front doors, back doors, and garage are blocked by our vehicles," Marcus confirmed, handing me a digital master-control tablet. "I hacked the smart-home system you installed. The house is completely locked down. Bulletproof shutters on the ground floor windows are dropping now."

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the walls as the heavy security shutters—a feature I had insisted on paying for when Wyatt bought the house—slid shut over the large windows upstairs.

The music above us abruptly cut off, replaced by confused murmurs from the guests.

I walked over to Sabrina, who was now trembling violently. I reached out and ripped the duct tape from her mouth.

"My security team is taking you to the police station," I told her coldly. "But before they do, you're going to sit right here and listen to what happens upstairs."