Page 159 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

Silence.

Then, faint and muffled, “Dad?”

The word hit me harder than I expected. Trapped in that concrete tomb, Kaisen reverted to something primal. Something desperate.

“We’re getting you out,” I said. “Stay calm.”

“Hurry.” His voice cracked. “Please… I can’t… I can’t breathe?—”

Men were already moving the winch system in position. They worked quickly, attaching cables to the steel lid’s edges, securing the base of the winch to a nearby tree.

“On three,” he said. “One. Two. Three.”

The winch engaged with a mechanical whine. The steel lid groaned, resisting at first, then slowly—agonizingly slowly—began to lift.

The smell hit us immediately. Sweat, piss, blood, and something else. Fear. Raw, animal fear.

The lid came free with a metallic screech and swung to the side, revealing the hole beneath.

I stepped forward and looked down.

The concrete tomb was exactly as I’d imagined—small, suffocating, designed to break a man’s mind before it broke his body. The walls were smooth concrete, maybe six feet deep, with a steel toilet and sink combo bolted to one side. A plastic cup lay overturned on the floor.

And in the center, curled into himself, was Kaisen.

He looked up at me with wild eyes, his face pale and streaked with dirt and dried blood. His clothes were torn and filthy. His left side, where Amai had stabbed him, was wrapped in crude bandages that had bled through hours ago.

“Dad,” he whispered again, and this time, his voice broke completely.

“Get him out,” I ordered.

Two men lowered a rope ladder into the hole. Kaisen tried to stand, but his legs gave out immediately. He collapsed against the concrete wall, gasping.

“I can’t—my legs?—”

“We’re coming down,” he said, already descending the ladder.

I watched as he and his partner carefully lifted Kaisen, supporting his weight between them. They maneuvered him onto the ladder, and the men above pulled him up slowly, carefully, like extracting something fragile from a minefield.

When Kaisen finally emerged from the hole, he collapsed onto the ground, shaking violently. One of the men wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Another pressed a bottle of water into his hands.

Kaisen drank like a man dying of thirst, water spilling down his chin and soaking into the blanket. When the bottle was empty, he dropped it and looked up at me.

“He knows,” Kaisen said, his voice hoarse. “Amai knows everything.”

I crouched beside him, keeping my expression neutral. “What does he know?”

“The sperm swap. The clinic. Victor’s involvement. All of it.” Kaisen’s hands were still shaking. “He knows I violated Truth. He knows the baby could be mine.”

I processed this information quickly, running through the implications. If Amai knew about the manipulation, if he understood the full scope of what had been done to Truth, then this wasn’t about legacy anymore. This wasn’t about family or power or control.

This was about vengeance.

“How did he find out?” I asked.

“When we got into it at the clinic.” Kaisen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But he knows. And he’s—Dad, he’s not right. He’s not thinking straight.”

“Tell me what happened.”