Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 114 - - don’t hurt Cynthia

Marc's frail hand, reaching for Cynthia, faltered and fell back to his side, too weak to remain raised. Outside the door, Albert Wilson witnessed the scene and, unable to hold himself back, furrowed his brows deeply before storming into the room.

Cynthia had just finished her dance and was rising from the ground when Albert and Jim entered the room. His face was marked with an intensity she had never seen before—an urgent mix of agitation, anxiety, and panic. He glanced at her briefly and commanded brusquely,

"Leave the room. I need to speak with Marc."

Cynthia's eyes widened with alarm. "What are you trying to do? Marc is too weak for this!"

Albert's expression darkened. His tone turned icy as he ordered Jim, "Take her out."

His words were sharp, leaving no room for argument.

Jim stepped forward, his hand reaching to guide Cynthia out, but she fiercely shrugged him off, rushing to Marc's bedside. "Marc, don't—please don't push yourself!"

Marc struggled to lift his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "Cynthia... you... go... out..."

Though weak, his determination was clear. He had something he needed to say to Albert—a final plea to protect the one person he cherished above all else.

Reluctantly, Cynthia backed away. She looked at Marc one last time, her heart aching, before leaving the room. As her silhouette disappeared beyond the doorway, Albert turned his attention to the dying man, his expression a storm of urgency and desperation.

"Do you remember someone called Terry Wilson?" Albert's voice was sharp, his words cutting through the tense air.

Marc's eyes widened in shock, his body trembling with the effort to breathe. His face twisted with fear as he stared at Albert, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You... you..."

Marc's reaction sent a wave of exhilaration through Albert, quickly replaced by a searing pain. Taking a step closer, he pressed urgently, "Who was the other person involved in his death? Tell me, Marc!"

Marc gasped for air, his breaths becoming shallow and erratic. His pale face flushed unnaturally red as he summoned all his remaining strength. With a sudden jolt, he reached out and grabbed Albert's arm, his grip surprisingly firm for someone so close to death.

"Don't... don't hurt Cynthia..." he rasped, his voice cracking as he choked out the plea.

Albert froze. The anguish in Marc's voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, the weight of Marc's words hung heavy in the air, threatening to overshadow the questions that burned in Albert's mind.

Marc's chest heaved as he struggled to speak, his breath shallow and uneven. Though he had never seen Terry Wilson's face, the surge of hatred in Albert's eyes left no doubt in Marc's mind about the young man's identity. And in that moment, realization struck him like lightning—Albert had married Cynthia for one reason only: revenge.

But Marc's heart ached with the cruel irony of it all. Cynthia wasn't even a Lancaster by blood. She had nothing to do with the sins of that family!

Albert, however, was consumed by desperation. He had spent years chasing shadows, searching for the third man who had destroyed his family. And now, standing before a dying Marc, he was closer than ever to the truth. If he couldn't get the answer today, he might never find peace. His voice grew sharp, his patience thinning.

"Tell me!" Albert demanded, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. "Who was the third person?"

Outside the room, Cynthia's heart shattered at the sight. Her tears spilled freely as she struggled against Jim's iron grip, her voice trembling with anguish.

"Marc is already so weak! How can he treat him like this?" she cried, her voice rising.

But Jim held her tightly, his own voice trembling, betraying his own unease. "Miss Lancaster, the Vice President is questioning something deeply personal—something he's spent his whole life searching for. If he doesn't get the answer today, it will haunt him forever."

Cynthia froze, her struggles faltering. She looked up at Jim, her breath catching as she saw the raw tension on his face. Even Jim, always calm and composed, looked pale and stricken. Slowly, she turned her eyes back to the room. Albert stood over Marc, his face drained of color, but his determination burned like fire.

Inside, Marc's body trembled as he fought for breath. His vision blurred, but the intensity of Albert's demand cut through his haze. Finally, with immense effort, he rasped,

"... It was... Robin Laurence..."

The name fell from his lips like a stone dropping into still water, shattering the silence in the room. Marc's pupils began to dilate, his mind drifting back to the memories that had haunted him for decades.

Years ago, he had given up everything to serve as William S. Lancaster's family doctor. He did it for one reason and one reason only: her. The woman he loved had been stolen away by William, her body and spirit broken by his cruelty. Every day, Marc visited to tend to her failing health, stealing moments to be near her—his beloved, his reason for enduring the torment of working under the Lancasters.

Marc's breath faltered again, his hand falling limp at his side. He was slipping away, his consciousness tethered only by the faint memory of her face. His lips trembled, mouthing words that no one could hear.

In the doorway, Cynthia's knees gave way, and she sank to the floor. The weight of Marc's truth, and the name he had spoken, left her trembling. She looked back at Albert, her voice cracking as she whispered,

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"Robin Laurence... Who is he? And why would Marc know him?"

That day, he went to the Lancaster family estate with a heart full of excitement. As he passed by the family's study, he overheard a conversation that caught his attention. William S. Lancaster's angry voice could be heard clearly,

"Karl, what have you done? Didn't I tell you to be more careful?"

Then came the voice of another man, anxious and pleading. This man was likely Karl, the one being scolded.

"Well, you know, anyone who walks by the river will eventually get their feet wet. You have to help me out this time!"

After William S. Lancaster and Karl's voices faded, a cold, sinister voice joined in.

"Why don't we just pin this on Terry Wilson? We can notify the police to arrest him at his stronghold in the Golden Triangle. That way, Yode can shift all his crimes onto him!"

Marc shuddered involuntarily and peeked through the slightly ajar door. In the shadowy corner, there was a figure seated, their expression dark and menacing. It was clear they were someone from the underworld. Marc frowned, trying to recall who it was, before finally remembering—it was Robin Laurence, the leader of the Four Seas Gang.

Robin Laurence's suggestion made Karl uneasy.

"But if we kill him, what happens to the supplies from the Golden Triangle?"

Robin Laurence smiled coldly.

"How about I take over? After all, I'm in this business too."

"But... Fredy... he's also been a long-time friend of ours."

After pondering for a while, William S. Lancaster finally spoke.

The four of them—Terry Wilson, Robin Laurence, Karl, and William S. Lancaster—each played a pivotal role in their drug trade network. Terry Wilson owned the poppy plantation in the Golden Triangle, which served as their primary source of supply. Robin Laurence was the one coordinating things on the mainland, with a formidable underworld presence and the power to fight off various enemies. Karl and William S. Lancaster, one in business and the other in politics, were the ones handling the largest drug deals in Europe.

Robin Laurence sneered wickedly, his tone sharp and harsh.

"Now, what's more important to us—our lives or our friendship?"

The three of them were like grasshoppers on the same string; if one fell, the others wouldn't escape either. But Terry Wilson was different. He was far away in the Golden Triangle, unaware of whatever schemes they were concocting here.

Of course, they couldn't allow Terry Wilson to fall into the hands of the police. If that happened, they too would be exposed. They planned to use Karl's connections to place their people among the police officers sent to capture Terry. Once there, they would kill him on the spot, leaving no evidence behind. Then... Wilson's poppy plantation would fall into Robin Laurence's hands. Unlike William S. Lancaster, who was captivated by women, or Karl, who craved power, Robin Laurence's true passion was for wealth that could rival nations.

Marc, cautiously leaning against the door outside, was horrified by the venom and malice in Robin Laurence's final words. His hand trembled, and the packet of drugs he was holding fell to the floor. The slight sound alerted those inside.

"Who's there?"

A cold, sharp voice rang out. Trembling, Marc quickly picked up the drugs and rushed into her room.

Behind him, Robin Laurence cast a murderous glare at the scattered drug residue on the floor before turning back to his room. Later that day, as Marc made his way back, he was ambushed and nearly killed, shot twice. Forced to jump into the sea to feign death, he narrowly escaped with his life.

However, he knew he could no longer live openly in this world. Yet, he could not stop worrying about the woman he loved. The most dangerous places were often the safest, so after his injuries healed, he hid in the orphanage. There, he treated patients, worked tirelessly at the orphanage, and kept a close eye on her news.

It wasn't long before the newspaper reported that the police had cracked down on the largest drug trafficking case in the Golden Triangle. Drug lord Terry Wilson had died by suicide, drowning while fleeing. His heart sank. They had really gone through with it!

Finally, Albert Wilson got the answer he had been dreading. His eyes darkened with fury.

"Robin Laurence?"

He gritted his teeth, the coldness in his demeanor chilling the air around him.

The hatred in his eyes made Marc gasp for breath, struggling as he reached out with all his remaining strength to grab him, desperate.

"Don't touch Cynthia..."

Hearing her name, Albert Wilson's expression shifted slightly. He leaned in, trying to catch his words, but all he could hear was Marc's rapid breathing.

"She... she isn't..."

Before Marc could finish, the hand gripping Albert Wilson went limp, and the man, who had spent his life healing others, passed away quietly. Looking at the pale, lifeless man on the bed, even Albert Wilson was momentarily moved.

But what did Marc mean by she isn't? Albert Wilson furrowed his brows in confusion, unable to comprehend.