Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 117 - - you’d better behave yourself.

The next day.

The oppressive atmosphere in the BGIG CEO's office was palpable.

Jim, trembling with unease, delivered his report on the Laurence family's situation. Albert Wilson shot up from his chair, his face dark as a storm cloud, and roared,

"What? Carl Laurence is still alive? Didn't I order all hospitals to be blocked from treating him?"

After discovering that Robin Laurence was the last of his sworn enemies, Albert had spent months meticulously planning his revenge. He had seized the perfect opportunity last night to target Carl Laurence. But Albert wasn't interested in killing Robin outright. No—he wanted Robin to watch helplessly as the people closest to him suffered pain and torment, making him taste the same heart-wrenching agony Albert had endured.

"Uh..."

Jim began to sweat profusely.

"The hospitals were blocked, as you instructed. But... it seems Carl Laurence was saved by a mysterious woman."

"A mysterious woman?"

Albert swept the documents off his desk in frustration. Grabbing a cigarette, he lit it with trembling fingers, a clear sign of his mounting rage.

"Yes, sir. The Laurence family is keeping a tight lid on the details. All we know is that it was a woman who saved him... and that she has long, wine-red hair."

Jim stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in terror as he glanced at the furious man across from him. If he wasn't mistaken, his dear Cynthia... had wine-red hair as well.

Albert Wilson clearly realized the same thing Jim was thinking. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke with visible tension.

"Go on!"

"We are currently suspecting that the woman who saved Carl Laurence is the one people on the streets have been calling *'Midnight Sunflower.'* She's rumored to be a highly skilled doctor—if someone has even a sliver of life left in them, she can save them. However, her fees are exorbitantly high, so high that many can't afford her services," Jim explained nervously, glancing at his boss's increasingly grim expression.

Jim swallowed hard and continued,

"Those who've been saved by her say she has long, wine-red hair—seductive and enchanting. But her face is described as plain, almost at odds with her striking figure."

The more Jim spoke, the clearer the image forming in Albert Wilson's mind became. He pressed the cigarette butt into the ashtray with force, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. The line rang for a long time before it was finally answered. On the other end came a groggy, lazy voice, still heavy with sleep.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Albert's tone softened, though it still carried traces of irritation—both from her having moved out without his permission and from his growing suspicions about her identity.

"What were you doing last night?"

Cynthia's heart skipped a beat, and any lingering drowsiness vanished in an instant. Though she had no idea that last night's incident had been orchestrated by him, her instinct was to keep her other identity hidden. Forcing herself to remain calm, she replied,

"Nothing. I was just sleeping in my apartment."

Her answer was followed by a heavy silence on the other end. The oppressive quiet made her hold her breath, afraid to make a sound. After a long pause, his voice finally came through again, low and laced with a faint sternness.

"Why did you dye your hair that color?"

Her hand trembled so violently that she nearly dropped the phone. Did he know something? He had never asked her this before. Forcing herself to stay composed, she stammered,

"N-no reason. I just like it..."

Another silence followed. This time, it unsettled her completely.

"Woman," he warned coldly, "you'd better behave yourself."

With that, he hung up abruptly, leaving her gripping the phone in a daze, unsure of what he had deduced.

Albert Wilson slammed the receiver down and turned to Jim.

"Find this *'Midnight Sunflower'* immediately. I want to meet her!"

"Damn woman! How dare she go against BlackRock? She must have a death wish. If I catch her, she won't get away unscathed!" Albert Wilson growled, his anger palpable.

Jim's face was etched with worry.

"But, boss... if she doesn't have an injured person to treat, she refuses to meet anyone."

Everyone knew how eccentric *Midnight Sunflower* was. If she were just after money, she'd demand payment only during treatments. But if she didn't care about money, why set prices that made even the wealthiest blanch?

Albert roared in frustration.

"Isn't she obsessed with money? Throw money at her—I don't believe she'll stay hidden! And besides, if the VP of BlackRock Wilson wants to meet her, would she dare refuse?"

"Uh... okay, I'll give it a try," Jim replied hesitantly, reluctantly accepting the daunting task.

Meanwhile, Cynthia couldn't sleep after hanging up the phone. She tossed and turned in bed, replaying Albert's words in her mind. She was certain he had discovered something. She had thought her dual identity was well-concealed, but could last night's Laurence family incident have a connection to him?

Why would he target the Laurence family? As far as she knew, his conflicts involved the Lancaster family first, then the Danny family, and now the Laurences. What was his ultimate goal?

Her thoughts spiraled into frustration. Each of these families had someone she cared about. Suddenly, she felt adrift, unsure of where her loyalties should lie.

While she was lost in thought, her phone rang. It was Victoria, and her voice carried a hint of panic.

"Senior, the VP's people just called—they want to meet *Midnight Sunflower*!"

"What?"

She bolted upright in bed. Victoria quickly added,

"I think he's starting to suspect your identity. Be careful, Senior. It might be best to avoid operating under that alias for now."

Cynthia considered Victoria's advice and nodded in agreement.

"You're right. Tell Gary to relay the message to his people that she won't meet. Be firm and make the refusal sound absolute!"

It seemed Cynthia really needed to seriously consider opening a clinic. At least this way, she could earn money openly to support the orphanage kids. Besides, she was already in her senior year of college, facing the reality of job hunting. Why not start preparing for the clinic now?

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Later in the afternoon, just before the end of the workday, Jim mustered up the courage to enter Albert Wilson's office.

"Boss, *Midnight Sunflower* said she won't meet anyone!"

"Then arrange another bloodbath to lure her out!"

Albert's fingers flew across the keyboard behind his desk as he issued the command without even looking up, as if it were the most mundane task.

Jim was taken aback, his face a mix of shock and disbelief.

"Boss, isn't that... unnecessary?"

"Didn't Carl Laurence survive? Then go after Robin Laurence this time!"

Albert's tone turned icy and sharp, leaving no room for negotiation. He wasn't joking about creating a bloodbath. Luring her out was only secondary—killing Robin Laurence was the real goal.

That evening, he arrived uninvited. Cynthia had just finished a dance session in the attic and was drenched in sweat as she descended the stairs. Seeing him step through the door, she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, feeling an almost overwhelming urge to retreat.

She was still dressed in her snug, elastic dancewear, which clung to her damp body even more tightly after her workout. She hadn't expected anyone to visit and had planned to head straight to the bathroom for a shower before changing into her pajamas.

Albert Wilson's eyes took in the scene as he entered—a strikingly vivid and sensual sight. Her perfectly contoured figure was highlighted by the close-fitting outfit, and her damp bangs clung to her face, exuding an irresistible allure.

The heavy gloom clouding his mood all day seemed to lift slightly, though his gaze darkened as he recalled her enchanting dance at the hospital.

He hadn't overlooked the stunned expressions of Jim and that brat Gary. Both men had been captivated by her performance, and he thought bitterly that it might be time to tell her something—like not dancing in front of other men. It was far too tempting and could easily provoke dangerous thoughts.

He stood there, brazenly letting his eyes roam over her. Cynthia's face flushed crimson, and she hurriedly ducked into her bedroom to change. When she returned, he was already seated on the sofa, his jacket and tie tossed carelessly aside. He lounged there with such ease that he might as well have been in his own home.

As she stepped out, he casually asked,

"Got anything to eat?"

"No," she replied stiffly, standing awkwardly at the doorway of her room. She cast a quick glance at the clock on the wall. The hour hand was nearing ten. Hadn't he eaten yet? Surely, he must've had dinner with Lucca or someone else.

"Make me some noodles," he said, entirely unconcerned by her discomfort, issuing the order as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Mr. Wilson—" she started to protest.