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Chapter 40 - 40- Why do you need money
Albert's lips curled into a sly smile, knowing she was too shy to ask for what she wanted, but her movements were invitation enough. He supported her hips with his hands, pressing forward in one fluid motion, taking her completely. His pace was intense and powerful; he had been holding back for a long time, waiting for her to be the first to yield.
After guiding her to her peak, he leaned close, his voice a teasing whisper in her ear, "If money is tight, why not consider staying with me?"
Though they were legally married, they both understood he wasn't referring to their official status. What he wanted was her genuine consent, her willingness each time they were together.
Exhausted and already overwhelmed by his intensity, she barely had the energy to shake her head in refusal. No—it simply wasn't possible. She couldn't continue this way; it was bound to hurt them both. Although staying with him would mean she wouldn't have to struggle to cover her children's medical expenses and although she was weary—so weary that she felt like breaking down in tears—she resisted his offer, feeling deep down that getting too close to him was dangerous. A man like him was a poison, a fleeting presence who wouldn't stay for a woman. She couldn't risk giving up her youth, her body, and eventually, her heart.
Her quiet refusal stirred his frustration, and Albert's expression hardened. His movements became rougher, each thrust a fierce mark of possession, as if he were branding her with his touch.
Damn it! How dare she reject him? Albert Wilson had never been denied what he wanted—whether it was women, wealth, or power. And yet she'd turned him down without hesitation, as if he were some uncontrollable beast.
Despite her lingering hangover, he continued until she succumbed to exhaustion and dizziness, eventually drifting into a deep sleep.
When Cynthia finally awoke, it was already evening. Her body ached, sore and weary, a tangible reminder of the difference between what had happened and what hadn't. Thinking of his words ignited a spark of irritation within her. She had been too frustrated earlier to notice if her body felt different, which was why she'd made that comment. Did he really need to go to such lengths to prove a point?
Cynthia sat quietly in the large bed, yet her heart was anything but calm. She and Albert had been entangled once again, and she couldn't help but wonder—what did he truly want from her?
When he'd first suggested marriage, she'd agreed, seeing it as a purely practical arrangement, knowing he only wanted to use her. But now, things felt different somehow. Unwelcome thoughts lingered, but the sudden chime of her phone's alarm broke her focus. Glancing at the time, she realized she was nearly late for work. Ignoring her aching body, she got up to quickly freshen up.
In the bathroom, she noticed new men's toiletries neatly lined up—items he must have had sent over during the day. Feeling no desire to dwell on it, she rushed through her routine, grabbed her things, and headed downstairs.
Just as she reached the lobby, two men in black suits appeared as if from nowhere. With their faces concealed behind dark sunglasses, they positioned themselves on either side of her, blocking her way. Their voices were flat, their expressions stoic.
"Miss Lancaster," one of them said, "the Vice President has requested that you rest at home today."
Cynthia stared at them, shocked. Had she misheard? Seeing the confusion in her eyes, the second man clarified in the same emotionless tone, "Mr. Wilson's orders—he doesn't want you working in such places anymore."
She blinked, finally grasping what he meant. He was forbidding her from going to her job? Was he trying to control her? Why? What gave him the right?
Anger flared within her. Her voice turned icy as she looked at the men and replied, "Go back and tell your Vice President that this is my own business. It has nothing to do with him, and he should keep his nose out of it."
With that, she tried to brush past them, but their arms remained locked in place like solid walls. Frustrated, she turned, attempting to slip past them from the side, only to have them swiftly move to block her path once more, like shadows that wouldn't disappear.
Cynthia frowned in frustration. "What is the meaning of this? I could charge you with restricting my freedom," she snapped, irritation clear in her voice.
The men remained silent, unmoved by her words. Realizing there was no escaping them, she pulled out her phone and dialed the one person who could get them to stand down. She tried to keep her voice steady, masking the simmering anger she felt.
"Albert Wilson, care to explain what exactly you mean by this?"
His voice came through the line, calm but firm. "I mean, I don't want to see you in that place again. That's all."
She let out a cold laugh. "Mr. Wilson, my choice of job is my own business. Since when do you have any right to interfere?"
She heard a loud crash on the other end, followed by his furious voice. "Cynthia, you're my woman. Tell me again why I wouldn't have a right?"
For a split second, his possessive tone made her heart skip a beat, but she quickly brushed off the fleeting reaction and returned to her resolve.
"Mr. Wilson, don't assume you need to take responsibility for me just because of what happened. Rest assured, I won't cling to you. And just because we're married doesn't give you the right to dictate my life—we're in this purely for convenience, remember—"
But before she could finish, he abruptly hung up. She merely smiled at her phone, unbothered. Moments later, one of the men's phones rang. After a brief exchange, he looked at her and announced, "Miss Lancaster, you're free to go."
Without sparing them another glance, she shouldered her bag and left with quick strides, relishing the thought that she had probably infuriated him once more. The satisfaction left her in a good mood.
It wasn't until she arrived at the bar and changed into her uniform that she noticed—her skin was marked with visible signs of his possessiveness, faint bruises trailing down her chest, and, just below her ear, unmistakable reminders of the morning. She sighed, realizing perhaps he'd been right about staying home.
Cynthia felt her heart skip a beat as she stood frozen by the door, clutching the tray of drinks. Why was he here? Of all people, why did it have to be him tonight?
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay composed, and stepped into the private room. Inside, Albert was the only one present, lounging comfortably with his legs crossed, his short hair meticulously styled, giving him an effortlessly sharp look. The thin silver-gray shirt he wore fit him perfectly, highlighting his toned chest and lean physique. Her cheeks warmed as memories of his closeness earlier flashed through her mind.
Albert's gaze landed on her briefly before it flickered to the silk scarf tied around her neck, clearly out of place with her outfit. He raised an eyebrow and asked casually, "What's wrong with your neck?"
Her mind raced, but she steadied her voice as best as she could. "Nothing, just... a bit of a sore throat," she replied, hoping the excuse sounded plausible.
He didn't look convinced, but he leaned back, still watching her closely. "A sore throat, hmm?" He let the words hang in the air, his expression unreadable.
Cynthia set the drinks on the table, praying he wouldn't pursue the topic further. But the intensity of his gaze only deepened as he observed her every movement. She could feel his eyes lingering on her, making her pulse race and her discomfort grow.
"Are you working here out of necessity, or just looking to make life interesting?" he asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.
She straightened, trying to summon every ounce of confidence she had. "It's none of your concern, Mr. Wilson," she replied firmly, meeting his gaze with a level look.
But his lips curved into a smirk. "I'd say it's very much my concern. After all, if anyone here thinks they have a claim on you..." His voice softened but held a warning edge, "...they should know exactly who they'd be dealing with."
Her breath caught at his words. She had no doubt he meant them, and despite herself, she felt a chill run through her.
She stood there, pursing her lips and remaining silent. Silence was the best way to provoke him. His displeased voice soon followed:
"Are you here to stand at attention, or to sell drinks?"
Hearing this, she stepped forward, took the bottle, and placed it in front of him. Standing there without looking at him, she stared at the sparkling marble floor beneath her feet and spokely:
"Which one would Mr. Wilson like to drink?"
Albert Wilson was irritated by her indifferent demeanor.
"What's this? You greet those men with a smile, but show me this attitude?"
He didn't even know what was going on with him. Earlier, when he heard her speak so coldly over the phone, he had let her go in a fit of anger. But then, he felt uneasy, so he came straight here.
He was aware that he had become entangled in some confusing feelings for her. He kept reassuring himself that he just wanted to conquer this stubborn woman, nothing more.
She glanced at him, then gave him a mocking smile.
"I don't think Mr. Wilson came here to buy my drinks."
He was clearly just looking for trouble, here to make fun of her! Of course, this was something she only thought to herself.
He gracefully opened a bottle of Hennessy and poured himself a drink. With his long fingers holding the glass, he looked at her and said slowly:
"Then tell me, what exactly am I here for?"
She glanced at him but remained silent. She didn't want to cause trouble, let alone argue with him. Seeing that she didn't respond, he took a sip of his drink and continued:
"Same old routine today? Buy one bottle, have a small sip? Buy twenty bottles, and drink a whole one?"
He leaned back, tilting his head to look at her. His jawline was smooth and beautiful, but his expression was undeniably suggestive, reminding her of that intimate moment from the morning that had made her heart race. It seemed like his expression was hinting that he hoped she would get drunk again today and end up entangled with him once more.
Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she snapped:
"Sorry, if the vice president wants to buy, then buy. If not, then forget it. I'm not in the mood to drink!"
He was finally provoked by her. Suddenly, he stood up, and his tall figure cast a shadow over her head. She felt as though she had fallen into an ice cave. Forced back a step by him, she heard his sinister voice from above:
"Why do you need money so badly?"
She pursed her lips and stood there, unable to speak. Even though she desperately needed the money, admitting it would strip her of the last bit of privacy. In front of him, she would become a transparent person.
Yet to her, he remained an enigma. She didn't understand why he wanted to destroy the Lancaster family, or why he was so obsessed with torturing her. They had agreed to be strangers.
She knew nothing about him. He was a mystery to her. She had always prided herself on her insightful, almost psychic intuition, but this uncertainty, the feeling of not seeing the future, made her anxious. What she didn't know was that, to him, she was just as much a mystery.
He reached out and lifted her stubborn chin, coldly commanding:
"Speak! What happened?"
Her hand, hanging at her side, clenched into a fist. She lifted her eyes, her expression cold:
"I think I've already made it clear enough, Mr. Wilson. Whatever I do, whatever happens, has nothing to do with you. Please, don't ask me again."
