Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 196 - - dream or reality

Cynthia stood there motionless, allowing his rough fingers to brush across her delicate cheek. After a moment, a self-deprecating smile suddenly appeared at the corner of his mouth, and then, without warning, he pushed her away, stumbling to the wall as he turned to glare at her. Gasping for breath, he shouted loudly,

"Get away! You heartless woman, even when I'm drunk, you won't let me go, and you torture me in my mind!"

After saying this, he turned and staggered forward, muttering to himself,

"It's all a dream, it's all a dream. Only in my dreams will she ever be this gentle with me..."

He took a few steps and found a door in front of him, kicking it open and collapsing onto the bed.

Cynthia stood there, her heart filled with mixed emotions from his words, but she was also worried he might hurt himself again. So, she followed him into the room. Seeing him collapse heavily onto the bed, she couldn't help but feel frustrated.

She had originally intended to get him into the guest room, but now he had made his way into her bedroom. She sighed in resignation, walked over, and carefully adjusted his body on the bed before planning to undress him.

But when her delicate fingers reached the first button on his collar, she paused. After a moment's hesitation, she decided to pull the blanket over him instead and turned to leave. Perhaps, given their current relationship, it wasn't appropriate for her to do something so intimate with him.

Just as she was about to leave, her hand, hanging by her side, was suddenly grabbed. With a bit of force, she was pulled down onto the bed, landing on top of him. She gasped in surprise and scrambled to get up.

But before she could sit up fully, he tightly wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, murmuring in a pained voice,

"Cynthia, Cynthia, tell me, is this a dream or reality?"

As Cynthia struggled to pry his strong hands off her waist, she spoke,

"Albert, you're drunk, just rest well."

But then he freed one of his hands and turned her face toward him, ignoring everything else as he kissed her lips.

"I don't want to rest, I only want you. Whether this is a dream or reality, being able to have you is enough for me!"

Cynthia was furious at his words. She strongly suspected that he was actually awake, merely using the excuse of being drunk to act recklessly. She struggled incessantly, and in the process, the buttons of her nightgown were torn open, exposing a large area of her pale, smooth back.

He paid no attention, kissing his way down from her earlobe and neck. Despite being this drunk, he still knew exactly where her most sensitive spot was—her back.

His fervent kisses sent his rationality spiraling away the moment his lips touched her smooth skin. His large hand reached up to fondle her breasts, and since she had been in such a rush, Cynthia hadn't had the chance to put on a bra, making it easier for him to freely ravage her body.

His hot palm cupped her breast, and as he squeezed, his hand brushed over the sensitive nipple. It immediately perked up, the sensation making Cynthia let out a desperate, shallow breath as her eyes closed. Could she truly not escape his grasp?

Meanwhile, Albert continued to kiss his way down her back, inch by inch, his hazy eyes still wandering until they reached the scar on her back. The sight of it sobered him up immediately. He stopped in his tracks, stunned. After a long pause, he finally found his voice.

"What happened here?"

The dark red scar painfully stabbed at his eyes, and all the desire that had been screaming inside him vanished. At that moment, all that remained in his heart was pain and shock.

Realizing he was referring to the scar, Cynthia's half-exposed back stiffened slightly. Seizing the opportunity while he was distracted, she turned her back to him, gently covering her body with her clothes and calmly said,

"It happened when a piece of wood burned me during the explosion."

"Why not get the scar removed? Technology is so advanced now..."

Albert gasped, his voice trembling as he couldn't stop shouting. She, however, turned around with a mocking smile.

"Why get rid of it? This is the only way to remember the pain, isn't it? This scar constantly reminds me not to... repeat the same mistakes."

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After saying that, she didn't even look at him before turning away and leaving. When she reached the door, she paused for a moment.

"Mr. Wilson, if the alcohol has worn off, please leave. If it hasn't, you should rest early."

After she left, a deep, painful scream erupted in the bedroom.

She rushed into the bathroom and took another shower. Facing the mirror, she saw the scar on her back. Quinn had offered to remove it more than once, but she had always refused.

When she came out of the bathroom, she heard him calling her name, followed by Olive's name in quick succession. She felt a headache coming on. What kind of drinking habits does this man have, shouting someone else's name while drunk?

In the bedroom, although Albert had briefly sobered up due to her sharp words, it didn't take long for the alcohol to take hold of his brain again. He hadn't eaten all evening, and his stomach was full of strong liquor. Could he really sober up so easily?

He lay tossing and turning on the large bed, unable to sleep. All that was left in his mind were the two figures—one large, one small. His stomach burned painfully, and his heart ached. The only way he could try to relieve the sorrow in his chest was by repeatedly shouting their names.

Cynthia chose to ignore him, letting him continue shouting in his drunken stupor. She walked into the guest bedroom, closed the door, and climbed into bed, hoping to get some sleep. Despite the room's good soundproofing, how could she still clearly hear his voice from across the house?

He kept shouting Olive's name, then Cynthia's, making her toss and turn in bed, nearly going crazy. Even with the covers over her head, she couldn't escape his voice—like an echo that wouldn't leave her. It was maddening.

She was furious, angry at Jim for leaving such a poor drinker in her care, angry at this man for having such a twisted habit. If he was drunk, fine, but why did he have to shout someone else's name? Why couldn't he just sleep quietly?

But no matter how angry she was, she didn't dare go over and do anything. If he pinned her to the bed again, she wouldn't be able to escape. He was clearly in a delirious state right now—better not to provoke him.

She didn't know how long it took, but finally, his voice seemed to quiet down. She turned over, let out a long sigh, and thought she might finally be able to sleep.

"Olive—"

Suddenly, his shout made her sit up straight in bed again, and then she heard him groan painfully.

"Olive, I'm sorry. I can't give you a complete home. I'm sorry, Olive—"

Cynthia sat there, tears streaming down her face. She buried her head in the covers and began sobbing softly. She admitted that his words had pierced her heart. He was apologizing to Olive, but she was also apologizing to Olive.

But what could she do now? She couldn't forgive him with the resentment in her heart, and yet, it hurt not to be able to give Olive a complete home. She wasn't the only one suffering—her pain was no less than his.