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Chapter 65 - 65-about monica
Monica leaned in slightly, her smile widening, but there was an underlying edge to it now. "Oh, you know. People like Albert... they don't always deal with things the way others might expect. He's got his ways, and they don't always follow the rules. So, if things don't go his way, he might look for ways to make you feel... the consequences."
Cynthia couldn't help the shiver that ran down her spine. She had known Albert was dangerous, cold, and calculating—but to hear Monica speak so openly about how he might use her as a pawn, or worse, send his vengeance her way, left her feeling uneasy.
"You're not serious, right?" Cynthia tried to dismiss it, though the tightness in her chest betrayed her.
Monica shrugged, her eyes still twinkling with that unsettling mix of mischief and something darker. "Well, like I said... he's got his ways. And you might not want to be the one caught in his crosshairs. But then again, maybe you like living dangerously, huh?"
Cynthia clenched her fists under the table, fighting the urge to respond harshly. She could feel the tension building in her, and Monica's words were only making it worse. It wasn't just about Albert's intentions—it was about how much power he really had over her life. Was Monica hinting at something she had no choice but to accept? Or was this all just part of some mind game she didn't understand yet?
"I'm not scared of him," Cynthia muttered, more to herself than to Monica.
Monica just gave a knowing smile, her eyes narrowing slightly. "No? Well, maybe you should be. Just remember, Cynthia... Albert doesn't play fair. And if you're not careful, you might find yourself caught in something you can't get out of."
With that, Monica stood up, straightening her skirt with a casual flick of her wrist. "Anyway, I've said my piece. You do with it what you want. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Cynthia watched as Monica walked away, a sense of foreboding settling over her. Whatever was going on between her and Albert, it was far from over—and it was clear now that the stakes were higher than she'd ever imagined.
Cynthia couldn't help but feel lines of exasperation creep across her forehead. What is with this family? she thought, baffled by how shamelessly they could say such things without even a hint of embarrassment.
Still, Monica's words left her with a flicker of unease. Could it actually be true? Cynthia shook the thought off.
He already has my body, but as for my heart...
Her hand instinctively moved to rest over the left side of her chest. That heart had been deeply scarred once before, leaving her immune to the notion of love. She doubted she could give it away so easily again.
"Come on, Cynthia, drink with me! Didn't you say you'd keep me company? You've been sitting there all night without taking a single sip!"
Monica's impatient voice jolted her out of her thoughts as she shoved a glass in front of Cynthia.
Cynthia hesitated. Since Monica had shared news that finally set her mind at ease, refusing seemed ungrateful. Reluctantly, she picked up the glass and downed it in one go, her face scrunching slightly. To be honest, she wasn't good with alcohol at all.
Just as she set the glass down, Monica grabbed the bottle, ready to pour her another. Cynthia quickly stopped her.
"Monica, it's not good for girls to drink this much!"
"So what if it's not good?" Monica shot back, her fiery tone giving way to an unexpected sadness. "Cynthia, I just got my heart broken. Can't I at least drown my sorrows in a little wine?"
For a moment, Monica's always-radiant face darkened, her usual dazzling smile replaced by an unmistakable trace of grief.
Cynthia thought she was joking and teased her lightly. "You? Heartbroken? That's impossible! You're perfect—beautiful, with a stunning figure, amazing abilities, and unparalleled elegance. What man in his right mind would let you go? If anything, they'd be lining up to adore you!"
Monica's straightforward personality was beginning to grow on Cynthia. It was refreshing, proof that not everyone around *him* was as insufferable, scheming, or devious as he was.
But as Cynthia's words hung in the air, tears suddenly streamed down Monica's face. She stared blankly ahead, a bitter smile tugging at her lips.
"Ha! Exactly. A girl like me—beautiful, with a stunning figure, amazing abilities, and unparalleled elegance—and yet, there are men who won't have me. Men who can't have me... and don't even want me."
The praise that Cynthia had just lavished on her was the same refrain Monica had heard countless times. Maybe hearing it too often had made it lose all meaning. She was a woman who should have been surrounded by love, yet somehow, love always eluded her, leaving her longing for something she could never have.
Cynthia was startled by Monica's sudden tears. She quickly pulled a packet of tissues from her bag and handed one to her.
"I'm sorry... I didn't know things were like this..."
Seeing Monica's tear-streaked face, Cynthia realized this wasn't a joke. It seemed like she truly was at an emotional impasse. Cynthia wasn't good at comforting people, so she sat there silently, observing her with quiet sympathy.
To be honest, Monica was indeed the kind of woman who could make any man's heart race. Her features were strikingly beautiful, with a bold radiance that could captivate anyone. Yet, she managed to avoid looking vulgar, as her naturally regal demeanor shone through her expressions.
Her figure was equally enviable—standing at 168 cm, she had the proportions of a model. She also had a penchant for wearing ethnic-inspired outfits, which Cynthia had noticed during both of their meetings. These outfits only enhanced Monica's unique elegance and proud, unattainable aura.
If Cynthia were a man, she would undoubtedly be moved by someone like Monica. But who could possibly be the kind of man to shut a woman like this out of his heart?
Monica took the tissue from Cynthia's hand, unfolded it, and gently pressed it against her tearful eyes. Then, lowering her head, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry silently. Her shaking shoulders made it clear how deeply her sorrow ran.
As Monica hid her face, she slowly began to tell her story. It was a story she had only ever confided to her best friend in England. Now, Cynthia became the second person to hear it.
The man she loved was named Reno. He was an exceptionally low-profile and enigmatic figure—one of the pioneers of their city's financial investment industry. Even someone as powerful as Albert Wilson held him in high regard.
Three years ago, Monica wasn't the carefree, flamboyant woman she was now. She was just a fresh graduate from Oxford University, a rookie who had just started working under Albert Wilson. Back then, while she carried a certain pride, she didn't yet possess the remarkable skills she had today.
It was during one of her first assignments that she met him. Albert had taken her and an overseas client to a private dinner. As the host, Albert stayed downstairs to order the food and asked Monica to escort the client to the private dining room. He casually mentioned that Mr. Reno and his assistant had already arrived.
By that time, Monica had already heard whispers about this mysterious "Mr. Reno." According to Albert and others, Reno was in his forties and had built his empire from the ground up. His company had expanded across the globe, with an annual net income in the billions, making him a towering figure in the financial world.
Despite his achievements, Reno was rarely seen in public, maintaining an almost mythical level of discretion.
Everyone who spoke of him did so with awe. Monica couldn't help but feel a growing curiosity. Could there really be such a perfect man in the world? And one so remarkably humble and low-key?
However, it was also said that at his current age, Reno had gradually stepped back from the limelight and was rarely seen in public. The only reason he had agreed to attend tonight's dinner was that it was a small gathering, and he was giving Albert Wilson a rare favor.
With a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, Monica led the client to the reserved private dining room. Inside, two people were already seated.
One of them was a slightly stout man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, exuding the aura of a seasoned and successful middle-aged professional.
Gathering her composure, Monica led the client forward and greeted them with a radiant smile.
"Mr. Reno, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Monica, the secretary to the Vice President of BGIG Wilson."
