Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 164 - - Reno, let’s break up

Cynthia fell heavily onto the cold, hard marble floor after being rudely shoved. The searing pain in her body paled in comparison to the overwhelming bitterness and despair in her heart. She sat there, motionless and silent, as if her spirit had left her.

Hearing the loud argument from inside, Monica and Jim rushed in. Monica immediately saw Cynthia sitting on the floor, hurried to her side, and helped her up, her voice filled with concern.

"Cynthia, what happened?"

Meanwhile, Jim stepped forward to pull the enraged Albert back a little. Cynthia shook her head lightly at Monica, but the tears she had stubbornly held back finally fell, hot and scalding, landing on Monica's fair hand. Monica's nose tingled with emotion, and she softly murmured,

"Cynthia..."

Cynthia wiped the tears from her face and turned to look at Albert, whose face was dark with fury. Her expression was resolute as she said,

"Albert, I'm sorry, but... I don't regret notifying Vince."

If Vince had committed a crime, she wouldn't have hesitated to hold him accountable. But he was an honest and upright prosecutor, someone who dedicated himself to serving the people. How could she stand by and let him be ruined? Even though she loved the man standing before her, she couldn't allow it.

The moment she finished speaking, Albert grabbed a pen holder from the desk and smashed it onto the ground. The expensive, finely crafted holder shattered into pieces. Monica screamed in fear and jumped back, while even Jim flinched.

Cynthia, however, remained where she was. Even as scattered pens hit her and stung her skin, she didn't flinch. She stood there with stubborn defiance.

"Get out! Get the hell out of here! The farther, the better!"

Albert pointed at her chest, his breathing ragged with anger. She didn't apologize for her betrayal—fine. But to boldly claim she didn't regret notifying that man?

Albert felt like he had never been so defeated in his life. The unbearable pain from his past, the inhuman trials he had endured, all paled in comparison to the agony of this woman's betrayal.

Cynthia didn't say another word. She gave him one last look, her eyes filled with anguish, before running out of his office. Monica quickly followed after her.

On the desolate autumn streets, people hurried along, wrapped tightly in their coats against the chill. Cynthia ran out, tears streaming down her face, her hand covering her mouth as she sobbed uncontrollably. Amid the bustling crowd, she suddenly realized she had no idea where to go.

Monica, clutching the hem of her flowing dress, chased after her, panting heavily. "Oh no, oh no," she muttered to herself. In broad daylight, on such a crowded street, her usual elegant and ladylike demeanor was completely gone. But for Cynthia, she was willing to set everything aside.

However, running in sharp high heels was no easy task. Meanwhile, Cynthia, propelled by heartbreak, darted ahead like the wind. In the blink of an eye, Monica lost sight of her. Frustrated, she stopped, hands on her chest, gasping for breath.

Across the street, through the large glass windows of a toy store, a scene of familial bliss caught Monica's eye and stopped her in her tracks.

Inside, a man she loved stood with a warm, gentle smile, holding the hand of a girl about ten years old with one hand, and embracing a poised and graceful woman with the other. The three of them were laughing and chatting joyfully as they examined a toy.

Every detail of his expression radiated tenderness and joy. The little girl's eyes sparkled with delight as she let out clear, melodious laughter. The woman in his arms, quiet and composed, simply smiled faintly, her gaze lowered as she watched the father and daughter in their lively conversation.

After all these years, Monica was finally seeing his wife—the woman who had always been in the background. She wasn't much different from what Monica had imagined: gentle, elegant, and serene. These impressions had been pieced together from the few passing mentions he had made of her over time.

She had never sought the spotlight, never flaunted her position. After helping him build his empire, she willingly retreated to her role as a homemaker, raising their child and tending to their home—the epitome of the traditional Chinese ideal of a virtuous wife and devoted mother.

At that moment, Monica felt an overwhelming sense of distance between herself and the man she loved.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face, like pearls from a broken string. Everyone passing by stared at her as if she were a ghost, but she paid them no mind, standing there crying without restraint.

She had no idea how much time had passed before the trio across the street finally decided on which toy to buy. The little girl, holding an adorable doll, walked happily toward the counter, with the graceful woman following behind her to pay.

As the woman turned to leave, her gaze seemed to sweep momentarily in Monica's direction. That glance, silent yet profound, appeared to carry a thousand unspoken words, as if she had long been aware of Monica's existence.

After his wife and daughter left, his gaze finally shifted toward Monica. By then, she was already in tears, her face a mess, her proud and composed demeanor utterly shattered. Monica, who had always held her head high, had never appeared so disheveled in public.

It was evident that he had noticed her long ago, but he had deliberately pretended not to see her. In that instant, her mind had never been so clear. She finally understood: No matter how young, beautiful, enchanting, or exceptional she was, Monica could never compare to the weight of "family" in his heart.

A bitter smile curled her lips as she raised a trembling hand to wipe away her tears. Pulling out her phone, she pressed his number one key at a time and dialed it. Her gaze remained fixed on his figure through the glass, as she stood silently on the opposite side of the street, waiting for him to answer.

A flicker of hesitation—and perhaps a trace of pain—crossed his handsome face. In the end, he picked up the call and held the phone to his ear. She stared at him, her hand clenched tightly at her side, her freshly manicured nails digging into her palm.

She heard her own voice, calm and devoid of emotion, say,

"Reno, let's break up."

Without waiting for his response, she hung up decisively and turned to leave with pride.

In the chilling autumn wind, her flowing dress billowed dramatically, her glamorous, wavy hair tracing defiant arcs through the air. Her slender figure remained upright and proud as always.

Through the tears blurring her vision, Monica tilted her head back and walked forward with confident strides. Hugging herself tightly, she let out a long, weary sigh. This passionate, unblessed love affair had lasted neither too long nor too short—exactly four years, it seemed.

In her haste to leave, she failed to notice the lean figure on the other side of the street trembling violently. After staggering several times, he steadied himself against the glass window.

Behind the shadow of his pain-stricken frame, those gentle, quiet eyes had been watching him all along. As the proud figure walked away, the woman let out a soft, relieved sigh.

Heartbroken, Cynthia ran as fast as she could toward her small apartment after finally shaking off Monica. Only there could she find the peace her aching heart so desperately needed.

In the same city but in opposite directions, two women scarred by love walked their separate paths—one willingly letting go, the other forced to abandon.

Behind Cynthia, a sleek black car trailed her slowly. The deep tint of its windows blended seamlessly with the dark body, concealing everything inside and lending the vehicle an air of mystery.

Inside the car, Arven, seated in the driver's seat, glanced anxiously in the rearview mirror at Quinn, who was staring intently at the woman outside. With a hint of concern, Arven spoke:

"Boss, we're still supposed to attend the deal. Are we really going to keep following her like this?"

In the backseat, Quinn shifted slightly, resting one arm against the car window and propping his chin on his fingers. His voice was calm but firm.

"Hmm, follow her until she gets home."

Arven hesitated, unable to suppress his worry.

"Why not just invite her into the car? We can give her a ride home."

His suggestion earned him a cold glare from Quinn, and Arven instantly fell silent.

The black car continued to follow Cynthia until it reached her modest apartment building. Quinn suddenly instructed Arven to stop the car. He stepped out, walking toward the desolate figure ahead. He had followed her the entire way, watching as she cried relentlessly. What on earth had happened to her?

Cynthia, with her head lowered, walked on in sorrow. A shadow suddenly appeared in her path, and before she could avoid it, she bumped into it head-on. Startled, she quickly lowered her head further and apologized:

"Sorry—"

She stepped aside, intending to keep moving forward, but the figure grabbed her arm, halting her. Looking up, she was stunned to see the cold and stern face of Quinn.

"Quinn? What are you doing here?"

He ignored her question, his brows furrowed as he stared at her tear-streaked, swollen eyes.

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

"What happened?"

His question hit a nerve, and tears began streaming down Cynthia's face like pearls falling from a broken string. She hurriedly wiped them away, embarrassed.

"Oh, it's nothing," she stammered. "The wind's just been strong lately, and my eyes are irritated. They water whenever I step outside..."