Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.

Chapter 50 - 50- This is your fault

Though Albert ended his sentence with a question, the tone was one that brooked no refusal, full of authority that left her momentarily speechless.

She could dance, and she was very good at it. Her mother had been a renowned dancer in her time, though she had worked in a nightclub. Before her mother died, she told her not to dance in front of men, because... being too beautiful would invite too much trouble.

She had only danced for Vincent and Marc. She danced for Vincent because, at that time, she truly believed he would be the man she could rely on for the rest of her life, and she freely showed him her beauty without holding back.

She danced for Marc purely to fulfill his unrequited love for her mother. In return, Marc had taught her his art without hesitation. She traded her dance for his medical expertise.

When she remained silent for a long time, his voice suddenly turned cold.

"What is it? You don't want to?"

She opened her mouth, her pale lips trembling, but no words came out. Her continued silence only invited his cold sarcasm.

"If you're so unwilling, why put yourself through such humiliation?"

He seemed about to hang up the phone.

"I agree!"

She finally managed to say those three words, as if using every ounce of strength in her body. She collapsed against the bed, feeling utterly drained.

"Good. Tonight at eight, I'll be at 'Faraway' meeting some guests."

After saying this, he seemed ready to hang up again.

"Albert Wilson—"

She suddenly called out to him, her voice sharp with desperation.

Cynthia's hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the phone. He said he had guests at Faraway, so did that mean she was expected to dance in front of all those people? She thought it would be just for him, in a quiet place...

"Do you want me to dance in front of so many people?" she asked, clinging to the last shred of hope.

"It's just a dance. What's so awkward about it?"

He coldly hung up the phone, and her tears once again flowed uncontrollably. She curled up on the bed, clutching herself tightly.

All she could hear were the stories Marc had told her about her mother—how her mother was not only incredibly beautiful but also a talented dancer. However, due to their family's decline, she had to resort to dancing in nightclubs.

Marc had said that her mother's dance was truly beautiful, as graceful as a fairy, as flowing as a gentle breeze, both still and dynamic, a beauty beyond words. When Marc said this, his eyes were filled with admiration and fondness, as though he was reminiscing about the many enchanting performances that had made his heart race.

But because her mother worked in such a vulgar place, she was often forced to dance provocative routines in revealing outfits. Though reluctant, she had no choice but to lower her head and endure, all for the sake of survival. Her mother had been humiliated, her graceful dance tarnished by the circumstances.

It was also a dance that had caused her mother to win William S. Lancaster's heart, only to be forcefully taken from her and married off, losing the love of her life. That was why her mother had forbidden her to dance in front of men before she died.

And now, here was Albert, demanding she dance—not just for him, but for a crowd of men, in a setting like a nightclub. Was her mother's humiliation from the past to be repeated in her own life?

But this was her only chance, wasn't it? If she missed it tonight, he would never give her another opportunity to make amends. This man was ruthless, cruel in a way that could make one shiver.

At eight in the evening, she arrived at "faraway," a glamorous nightclub owned by Geraint, the leader of BlackRock. It was a place where all the rich heirs and business elites gathered.

In front of the golden VIP room, a slender woman with long white hair knocked on the door and entered. The moment she stepped into the noisy room, it fell utterly silent. The guests stared in shock at the woman who had appeared before them, their eyes wide with awe and admiration.

She wore a flowing, elegant white top and tight black leggings, with black dance shoes. Her long black hair cascaded like a waterfall over her shoulders, and she looked like a classical beauty who had stepped straight out of an ink painting.

One of the kind-hearted guests murmured, as if uncertain,

"Miss, are you sure you're in the right place?"

Cynthia summoned the courage to step into the room, and immediately she was met with the scrutinizing gazes of the crowd. The men's eyes were full of admiration, while the women, nestled in the arms of those men, shot her glances of envy and anger.

She felt a bit unsettled as she searched the crowd for his face. He was so outstanding, his presence commanding attention, and among the people, she found him at once. He was sitting at the center, his long legs crossed, a glass of wine glowing with a seductive light in his hand.

"You're here."

He glanced at her briefly and said it casually, before turning back to chat with those around him, drink in hand. She stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Several lewd men came forward to strike up conversations with her. She bit her lip tightly, forcing herself to hide her disgust.

She wasn't sure how long this torment lasted, but finally, his cold voice rang out again

"Pick a song and start."

With stiff legs, she made her way to the music station. Laughter erupted from the crowd behind her.

"Albert, what game are you playing now?"

"Albert, where did you find such an innocent girl? Makes me want to pull her into my arms and cherish her."

"Look, look, that little face, those small lips, that slender figure. I wonder if she can handle our strength under her, hmm?"

Vile words flooded her ears, and her hands, hidden in the folds of her clothes, clenched tightly. Her sharp nails dug into her flesh, but she focused on keeping her disgust hidden. She forced herself to block out the lewd comments and concentrated on choosing a song.

Soft, flowing music gradually filled the noisy room, and the crowd fell silent, turning to look at her. She didn't speak; she simply stood there, waiting for the right rhythm to begin.

A soft, graceful female voice gently filled the room as she swung her long sleeves and twirled into the dance. A spin, a glance over her shoulder—her hair flew through the air, and her garments fluttered as she moved with elegance and charm.

The crowd, used to mingling with people of shallow tastes, had never seen such a delicate and ethereal scene. They were entranced, their attention completely fixed on her. In that moment, the entire room was filled with only the soft classical music and the sight of the woman in white.

"Out!"

Just as the crowd was mesmerized, a harsh shout broke the spell. Everyone in the room flinched, their hearts quivering at the sudden outburst.

At that moment, Cynthia, balancing on her tiptoes as she danced on the cold marble floor, was startled by the yell. She lost her footing and fell hard to the ground. Pain shot through her ankle, and she winced.

The man, standing in the midst of the crowd, glared at her with a stern face. His chest rose and fell slightly, as though trying to suppress the anger building within him. The others in the room exchanged confused glances, unsure of who the order to "get out" was directed at. He raised an eyebrow, then, in a chilling tone, issued a cold command:

"Everyone, out!"

The terrifying look on his face, the cold aura radiating from him, made everyone freeze. Realizing something, the others quickly scattered like birds, leaving the once-crowded room eerily quiet, with only him and Cynthia left—she still sitting on the floor, nursing her fall.

She sat there, gazing up at him, but all she could see was the depth of his eyes, like an unfathomable abyss. She couldn't tell what he was thinking—whether he was angry or pleased. When he had just scolded the others, it was clear he was angry, but now, in this moment, he was as inscrutable as ever.

He stood up and walked toward her, crouching down in front of her. He gently lifted her chin with his hand and whispered in a soft, lazy tone, "Let's go home."

The tenderness in his voice startled her. Her eyes widened in fear, and she instinctively shrank back. This man was too terrifying. Just a moment ago, he seemed ready to tear her apart, and now he was acting so gentle. The calm, composed demeanor she had cultivated over twenty years began to unravel in his presence.

Without saying anything more, he reached down, took her delicate foot in his hand, and gently removed her shoe. He began to massage her ankle, which had twisted badly when she fell. The pain surged through her, and she winced, tears welling up in her eyes.

"It's not broken," he muttered after a long while, as if that was supposed to be comforting.

She lowered her gaze, refusing to look at him, inwardly cursing.

Of course, I know it's not broken, I'm a doctor, she thought bitterly.

But it still hurts like hell, and I can't walk on it.

But before she could complain further, he suddenly lifted her in his arms and walked briskly out of the room. As they exited, the eyes of the onlookers followed them, and she instinctively buried her face in his chest, letting her long black hair shield her from their prying gazes.

When they reached her apartment, he carried her upstairs and laid her down on the couch. She had intended to protest, to say she didn't need his pity, that her predicament tonight was all because of him.

This is your fault,

she wanted to say.

But as she thought about it, she held her tongue. She was genuinely afraid now. She knew the consequences of angering him further, and it terrified her. After tonight, she was certain she would become more careful, more compliant, quieter.