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Chapter 43 - 43- you’re insane for money
As expected, Vincent's entire body stiffened. Taking advantage of the moment, Cynthia broke free from his grip and walked slowly toward the man standing nearby, his aura cold and dangerous. Her steps trembled slightly. Albert stood there with his hands in his pockets, his gaze dark and menacing, looking nothing like his usual sharp, composed self.
Before she got far, Albert stepped forward in a flash, yanking her into his arms with a crushing grip, as if he intended to break every bone in her body. Holding her tightly, Albert cast an icy glare at the dispirited Vincent.
"Prosecutor," he said, voice calm yet loaded with menace, "I suppose I should call you Vincent, given the family ties. So, Vincent, don't forget who you are. Don't ever come around to pester my wife again, or else—"
He laughed, coldly, a sound that sent a chill through Cynthia.
"Everyone knows my methods," he finished, before turning and walking up the stairs, his arm around Cynthia, leaving Vincent stunned and stumbling back a few steps.
Left alone in the dark night, Vincent watched the two figures fade into the shadows of the stairwell. He felt a surge of self-loathing, despising his fate—the limits imposed on him by his privileged background. If only he had been born into an ordinary family, he could have been free, not bound by family alliances. He could have been like Albert: a self-made man with the power to give the woman he loved safety and happiness.
But Vincent, if you'd been born ordinary, you might never have met Cynthia of the Lancaster family. Perhaps you wouldn't have experienced the heartache of loving her.
As for Albert, what did he endure to reach his current high status and powerful position? It's something you could never comprehend. If it weren't for the darkness within him, he might just be another charming, carefree man. 𝔫𝖔𝖛𝖕𝖚𝔟.𝖈𝖔𝔪
In the dim, narrow stairwell, Albert practically dragged Cynthia up. His grip was rough, and she could feel pain spreading through her body with each step. By the time they reached the sixth floor, she struggled, trying to pull away, feeling as if her bones might shatter under his grip.
Her resistance only served to stoke his simmering anger. He threw her against the wall.
"What's wrong? Now that your old flame's held you, are you disgusted by my touch?" he snapped.
His voice boomed so loudly that Cynthia glanced nervously at the opposite door. This wasn't like his vast, private mansion where he could shout however he liked. It was late, and if he woke the neighbors with his shouting, it would be utterly humiliating.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm exhausted and want to rest. You should leave," she replied, her voice steady but weary.
Cynthia truly didn't have the strength to argue anymore. She was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. She had no idea where she was going to gather the money she needed for the medical bills.
"Tired?" Albert's voice softened slightly, though the cold edge remained. "And where were you tonight if not at the bar? Just how desperate for money are you?"
Cynthia leaned against the wall in silence, her lips pressed together. She decided to give him the silent treatment, but her quiet resistance only seemed to annoy him further. Without a word, he pulled out his wallet, took out a stack of bills, and tossed them at her.
"If you're so desperate for money, why not spend the night with me? A hundred thousand for one night."
He hissed the words, his gaze dark and unyielding. For a moment, Cynthia was stunned, her blank eyes flickering with a strange light he couldn't quite decipher. Before he could react, she bent down, picked up the money, and looked at him with a slight smile.
"I didn't realize my body was worth that much," she replied.
Then, she lowered her gaze, pulled out her keys, and unlocked the door. No one saw how her fingers trembled as she clutched the money—she had sworn she wouldn't go to him for help, yet here she was, reduced to this.
The door swung open, but he remained there, unmoving. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face him, her expression calm.
"What you just said... Does it still stand?"
Albert's brows drew together sharply; he hadn't expected her to respond like this. His words had been spoken in anger, but the seriousness in her expression made it clear she wasn't bluffing. She was really considering selling herself to get the money.
The realization hit him hard. Yes, he could have her like this, but instead, a surge of anger erupted within him, beyond his control.
"Cynthia, you're insane for money," he spat.
Cynthia's eyes briefly flashed with a trace of despair before she turned and walked further into the apartment. Yes, she thought bitterly, maybe she *had* gone mad with desperation. If she didn't find the money soon, two innocent lives would be lost. His earlier words had ignited a tiny spark of hope, but now it was clear they'd been nothing more than a cruel joke. Enough,she told herself. Don't rely on anyone. How many times do you need to learn this lesson?
She had barely taken a few steps when the sound of a door slamming behind her filled the room. Suddenly, she felt his presence at her back, close and overpowering. Before she could process what was happening, his hands were on her, pinning her against the wall, his lips pressing down on hers with an unrestrained intensity.
Instinctively, she wanted to push him away. But then she remembered her own words, her desperate invitation, and her resistance faded. Her shoulders sank as she leaned back against the wall, allowing him to take what he wanted. If this was how she had to secure the money, and if the person she'd give herself to was him—then so be it.
Years of resisting him had almost become second nature, yet tonight, her unexpected compliance stirred an unfamiliar pang of tenderness in Albert Wilson. Just as quickly, however, that warmth was swallowed by a fresh wave of resentment as he remembered her motive. She was doing this for the money, and that thought alone made him recoil.
Cynthia gasped softly, pressed against the wall, and watched him with uneasy eyes. One moment he was passionately kissing her, the next he'd shoved her away, his mood shifting unpredictably. She couldn't tell if he intended to honor her request or dismiss it altogether.
In her cramped apartment, his tall frame seemed even more imposing, his presence heavy and stifling. Today, of all days, he wore a dark purple striped shirt, its striking color adding to the intensity of the scene. His piercing gaze, filled with dark suspicion, was almost unbearable to meet
"Come here and make me feel desired," he ordered, his voice low and demanding.
Her body froze, and she felt the weight of his words settle over her. She knew he could see the reluctance in her eyes, the part of her that recoiled from him. His expression grew colder, tinged with a mocking edge.
"Didn't you always go through the motions begrudgingly? This time, I want to see your sincerity."
With those words, he cut off any retreat.
If she wanted the money, she had to play by his rules. If she didn't, he'd walk out of her life without a second thought.
Standing rigidly against the wall, her hands clenched behind her, damp with a mixture of cold sweat and apprehension. A swirl of emotions—anxiety, discomfort, and fear—churned within her, yet on the surface, she maintained a mask of detachment, cold and indifferent.
Only by burying her true feelings could she cling to the last remnants of her dignity.
Cynthia stepped closer, lifting herself onto her toes to get near Albert. Her hands slid around his neck, and she whispered softly in his ear, her voice barely audible.
"Albert—"
The softness in her voice hit him like a powerful wave, and for a moment, Albert Wilson felt his heart lurch painfully in his chest. These words—he only ever heard them in the heat of passion, when she was writhing under his touch, consumed by their moments together. Otherwise, she addressed him as either his full name or distantly as "Mr. Wilson."
But now, as she pressed against him, calling him "Albert," there was an intimacy, a closeness, as though they were lovers who had been together for years.
Yet, the moment was shattered by her next words.
"I need seven hundred thousand."
The number rang in the air, heavy with implications. Seven hundred thousand, meaning seven days, ten thousand each day. She was daring to make such a demand, to stay entangled with him for that long.
Albert's expression stiffened, his anger flaring, but he quickly masked it with a dark chuckle. "Then show me your sincerity."
He felt her slight tremble as she held onto his arm, and then, with a soft and measured movement, her lips brushed over his. Her kiss was gentle at first, tentative, as though testing the waters. Her fragrant tongue slid carefully between his lips, teasing and coaxing him, sending sparks of heat through his entire body.
The effect was instantaneous, like a rush of blood to his head. It was as though the world ceased to exist outside of this moment, outside of her touch. She was like a cat, lazy and soft in his arms, testing the limits of his restraint.
Something in him shifted, and for once, he didn't act out of the usual violent need to dominate. Instead, he responded gently, the kiss becoming softer, more tender than it had ever been before. No anger, no violence—just a raw, aching desire that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than before. Their lips met again, this time deeper, pressing closer as if they had forgotten how to be apart.
