Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 118 - - I don’t mind

Cynthia hid in her bedroom, browsing the internet, hoping her cold demeanor would drive him away. Yet, deep down, her emotions were in turmoil. The words she had just blurted out echoed in her mind, and she had to admit that this man was increasingly getting under her skin.

Suddenly, a loud "thud" came from outside, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor. Startled, she hurried out of her room. What she saw made her freeze—he was bent over, clutching his stomach with one hand, his expression twisted in pain. He was rummaging through the fridge, and the sound had come from a bottle he had accidentally knocked over.

Seeing him so pitiful and disheveled, a sharp pang of discomfort surged through her chest. After a brief hesitation, she finally forced out a few words, awkwardly and with difficulty.

"You... You didn't actually skip dinner, did you?"

Being a doctor, she could tell at a glance what was troubling him—stomach pain. But what puzzled her was why he hadn't eaten and had instead come all the way to her place so late.

He glared at her furiously, his pale face still brimming with an unyielding intensity. Startled, she quickly stuck out her tongue in a sheepish gesture and helped him to the couch. Fetching a cup of warm water, she handed it to him.

"Drink this to warm your stomach. I'll make you some porridge."

Though reluctant to involve herself, she couldn't just stand by and let him starve, could she?

He didn't respond, probably too weak from the pain to argue. She sighed and turned toward the kitchen, silently marveling at how perfectly timed his act of feigned misery was.

Soon, the aroma of millet porridge wafted from the kitchen. Albert Wilson leaned back on the sofa, sipping the water while his gaze lingered on the slightly ajar kitchen door. Through the gap, he could see her figure moving busily inside.

She had always come across as cold and aloof, the kind of person one could never associate with the warmth of a caring, domestic partner. Yet now, watching this proud woman bustling in the kitchen, cooking for him, he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. The ache in his stomach, the exhaustion in his body—they all seemed to melt away. What remained was a tender warmth that flowed gently through his heart.

If only time could freeze at this moment...

Cynthia emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of freshly made porridge in her hands. The white porcelain bowl, adorned with delicate blue floral patterns, glowed under the light. Her slender fingers gripped the bowl gracefully, and the golden millet grains inside shimmered like tiny crystals. It was a simple dish, yet it looked so enticing.

She placed the porridge in front of him, then bent down to pull a box of medicine from the drawer under the coffee table.

"This is for your stomach. Take it half an hour after eating."

She turned to leave after speaking, but before she could take a step, her wrist was firmly grasped by him. His voice, awkward and hesitant, broke the silence.

"Stay and keep me company!"

Cynthia was speechless. But feeling the unyielding grip on her wrist, she had no choice but to give in, sitting down beside him. Only then did he release her hand and pick up the spoon to scoop up some porridge. The moment it touched his lips, though, his face scrunched up in pain from the heat.

Cynthia glanced at him. Clearly, he didn't like eating food that was too hot. She had cooled the porridge a little, but it seemed it was still too hot for him. With a sigh, she got up, intending to head back to the kitchen to serve a smaller portion and let it cool.

Before she could take more than a step, he grabbed her again, this time with a touch of irritation in his movements.

"Why are you so disobedient?" he snapped, the annoyance evident in his tone.

He assumed she was trying to leave again, and the thought made his temper flare.

Resigned, she explained patiently, "I'm just going to the kitchen to get something."

Only then did he let her go, albeit grudgingly. Moments later, he watched her return with another bowl of porridge. Sitting beside him, she gently stirred the porridge to help it cool. A faint trace of embarrassment flickered across his handsome face.

For a while, neither of them spoke. He quietly ate his porridge, and she silently stirred hers, the rhythmic movements of the spoon breaking the stillness. Though no words were exchanged, a subtle warmth filled the air between them.

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After a long pause, he tilted his head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at her as she sat with her head lowered. His voice, soft and probing, broke the silence.

"How did you know about me and Lucca?"

Cynthia's hand froze mid-stir. A faint, enigmatic smile curved her lips as she responded lightly, "Just a guess."

"Some guess you've got."

He sipped his porridge with an air of nonchalance, but Cynthia couldn't fathom why he'd suddenly bring up this topic.

He finished the bowl of porridge and pushed the empty dish aside. Without missing a beat, she handed him the bowl she had been cooling. Taking advantage of the moment, he clasped her delicate, soft hand in his palm, gently stroking it.

"Do you mind?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate.

Surprised, she looked up at him. His dark eyes were filled with emotions she couldn't decipher, nor did she want to. She chose to lower her head, pressing her lips together in silence.

Unwilling to let it go, he reached out with his slender fingers and tilted her petite chin upward. His chiseled features loomed closer, the sharp angles of his face exuding an overwhelming intensity.

"I'm asking you... do you mind?"

His gaze bore into hers with an undeniable determination, as if he wouldn't relent until she gave him an answer. Suddenly, she laughed—a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips.

"Does it matter whether I mind or not? If I said I did, would you cut ties with her?"

He raised an eyebrow and released her chin, replying with a smirk, "You could try saying it."

She froze, unable to handle the ambiguous undertone in his words. Gritting her teeth, she replied coldly,

"Sorry, Mr. Wilson, I don't mind. I don't have a habit of sharing a man's heart with another woman."

She said she didn't mind, but the sharpness in her earlier question about him and Lucca betrayed her true feelings. Deep down, she did mind—how could she not? Otherwise, why would she have challenged him about Lucca in the first place?

But what difference did it make? When it came to feelings, she was undeniably the third party. No matter how much she minded, he wouldn't give up Lucca. Monica had said Lucca had once risked her life for him. What kind of profound love could drive someone to do that?

So, better to say nothing, to preserve a shred of dignity for herself.

"I don't mind," she said.

Albert Wilson's lips curled into a cold smile, his anger barely contained.

"Good. Very good. What a generous woman you are," he spat, his words dripping with sarcasm.

She didn't respond to his mocking tone, lowering her head once more into silence. But deep inside, her heart felt more and more bitter.