Chapter 51 - 51- Would you fall in love with him?
Once he placed her on the sofa, he stood up and retrieved a medical kit, preparing to tend to her injury. She couldn't help but feel a wave of sadness wash over her as she settled into the quiet of her small apartment. The warmth of the space, the familiarity, made her heart heavy with guilt. She couldn't shake the feeling that, by dancing tonight, she had somehow dishonored her mother's memory. She felt she had betrayed the very essence of her mother's dance, and the weight of that guilt weighed on her deeply.
The pressure on her ankle grew more intense with each of his movements, causing sharp pain to shoot through her. Without warning, tears began to fall uncontrollably, each drop splashing onto his large hand as he applied the medication. He froze, and for a moment, the room was thick with tension. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, his gaze so piercing it almost felt as if it could burn a hole through her.
She had been keeping her head down, but under his intense stare, she hastily wiped her tears away, forcing herself to stop crying. She silently repeated to herself over and over: Cynthia, don't cry, don't cry!
Don't let him see you cry, she reminded herself. Even if he sees it, he won't care, he might just mock you even more. Don't humiliate yourself further.
She thought of how, under Vincent's care, she had never shed a tear. He had never allowed her to feel even a hint of distress. But ever since she became entangled with this man, her tears over the past two days had already surpassed all those years with Vincent combined.
This is the difference between love and indifference,she thought bitterly. If I were the one he truly cared about, he would never let me suffer like this.
Suddenly, his hand reached up and gently lifted her chin. His dark eyes fixed on her tear-streaked face, and it felt as though he was trying to see into her very soul. The more he looked at her, the more overwhelmed she became, and in that instant, the floodgates opened. Tears poured out of her, unstoppable.
She heard him sigh in frustration, as though he were regretting something, before pulling her into his arms. His embrace was sudden, yet somehow desperate.
"I'm sorry..." he murmured, his voice low and reluctant, as if each word cost him more than he was willing to give. But even with that apology, the sting of his earlier actions still lingered in her heart.
She pushed against his chest, her voice shaking with pain and fury. "Albert Wilson, I hate you, I hate you! My mother told me never to dance in places like that. I've gone against her teachings—I'm an unfilial daughter!"
Her sobs grew louder as she collapsed against his shoulder, her fists pounding against his unyielding back. Every strike seemed futile, but she couldn't stop herself. The hurt, the anger, and the guilt overwhelmed her, and for a moment, the weight of everything she had sacrificed felt unbearable.
The warm tears soaked through his shoulder, and Albert Wilson clenched his jaw, kneeling there as she pounded against him. Damn it, he regretted letting her go to *faraway* to dance tonight. If only he knew that the way she moved would captivate everyone around her like that. When he saw those men eyeing her with such greed, he wanted nothing more than to tear them apart, to lock her away on some deserted island, never to let anyone else see her and fall under her spell.
And yet, the woman wouldn't stop crying. He had never seen her lose control like this before. His emotions were tangled—there was an odd sense of sympathy and helplessness stirring inside him. But what could he do? Apologizing, saying he was sorry, that was as far as he could go. He couldn't find it in him to be gentle, to coax her, to make her laugh—that was beyond him. Not unless the sun rose from the west.
After wrestling with his emotions, he finally stood up, cradling her in his arms and heading toward the bedroom. At first, she resisted slightly, but then she seemed to give in, lying still in his embrace, letting him take control.
A sharp pang of pain shot through his chest. Over the course of their time together, he had developed some interest in her. He had always thought it was because she was different from the women around him—her coldness, her resistance, the way she showed him no mercy stirred something in him. But now, he feared that if she became just like the others, obedient and compliant, he wouldn't feel the same way about her. The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Once she was settled on the bed, she curled up, turning her back to him, her small shoulders still trembling with silent sobs. It was clear she was still fighting the tears.
He walked away, irritated, and took a quick shower. When he came back, she seemed to have fallen asleep, though the traces of her tears still clung to her face. He stood there for a long while, watching her, before he finally slipped under the covers beside her. That night, he didn't touch her.
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But as he lay there, sleep eluded him, and when he was finally drifting off, she suddenly jolted upright in bed, crying out, "Mom! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Cynthia is unfilial!" She hugged herself, sobbing uncontrollably.
He was startled, rushing to pull her into his arms, his face filled with anxiety.
"Cynthia? Cynthia, what's wrong?"
As she closed her eyes, the image of her mother's resentful and angry gaze flashed in her mind, cutting deep like sharp knives. She could almost hear her mother's voice, bitter and accusing: Cynthia, how could you dance in a place like that?
The next moment, her mother's once gentle face distorted into something monstrous, turning into a series of grotesque hands that tightened around her neck. In the suffocating despair, Cynthia awoke with a start.
The large hand still gripping her shoulder worsened her nightmare. She angrily shook off the intrusive hand and collapsed back onto the bed, quickly falling into a heavy sleep once more. But it wasn't long before she woke up drenched in sweat again, anxiety creeping back into her chest. Albert, ever watchful, immediately got up to check on her, his concern palpable.
The entire night passed with her tossing and turning, and Albert unable to find rest either. She struggled with restless sleep until, in the early hours, she finally drifted into a peaceful slumber. He, however, no longer felt the urge to sleep. He dressed quietly, left the room, and walked out into the morning fog, leaving her in the stillness of the room.
Perhaps it was the weight of her trauma that made her sleep so fitfully, the presence of the man who had hurt her only deepening her nightmares. When had he, Albert Wilson, become a woman's nightmare? He couldn't help but mock himself with a bitter smile before stepping into the cool, foggy morning.
The next day, Cynthia awoke to the soft warmth of sunlight spilling into the room. The man was no longer by her side. The summer sun was harsh, but the light filtering through the thick curtains was warm against her skin.
She got up, tidying herself up. Her foot still hurt a little, but it wasn't severe enough to hinder her movement. Perhaps she should thank him for the massage last night; it seemed to have helped disperse the swelling.
After a moment's hesitation, she dialed Vincent's number. She didn't have anything specific to say, but she just wanted to offer him a little comfort. Most importantly, she hoped her blessing would put an end to his thoughts of divorce.
She was surprised by her own calmness, the fact that she could now face Vincent with a peaceful heart. There was a time when even hearing his name would cause her pain, but now she could smile and wish him well. Time, and the healing power of a new relationship, had worked wonders on her heart.
Maybe her decision to marry him wasn't all wrong after all. At the very least, she had ensured a small life would grow up in a complete family. Vincent wasn't a cruel man, and Grace Lancaster had clearly found his weakness and held onto it tightly.
Vincent's voice on the other end of the line was filled with exhaustion, but there was an undercurrent of restrained joy. After everything he had put her through, he never imagined she would call him.
"Vince, I'm waiting for you behind the orphanage," she said softly, nestled into the cushions of her loft, gazing out at the clear blue sky.
"Cynthia... you—" Vincent's voice faltered, his excitement taking over, and Cynthia couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. She had to steady herself before responding calmly.
"Vince, don't misunderstand. I just want you to get some fresh air."
"Would you fall in love with him?"
Without waiting for Vincent to say anything more, she hung up the phone and walked out, heading toward the orphanage.
It was summer, and the back mountain of the orphanage was covered in lush greenery. But to her, the sight seemed even more desolate than the withered yellow of autumn. This place... had carried all the sweet memories they shared together. From when she was sent there at the age of five, until the time they fell apart at eighteen.
At that time, five-year-old Cynthia, still grieving the loss of her mother, rejected everything about the orphanage. Even though Marc was kind and gentle with her, she still felt sorrowful. She would often run off alone to the mountain and cry in solitude, surrounded by the emptiness.