He could tolerate her meeting with Vincent behind his back, and he could tolerate the way they had been exchanging glances and lying to him. But for his own wife to have someone else tell him how to deal with Wilson?
Under these circumstances, no matter how composed he was, he couldn't stand it. Vincent was outright provoking him! Was he trying to flaunt how well he knew her?
So, his gaze turned sharp and merciless, and he shot Vincent a fierce look. Then he stood up abruptly, grabbed her, and dragged her out. He couldn't eat another bite—this meal might just kill him with rage!
His rough grip made Cynthia stumble as she tried to keep up. As they reached the door, a cold breeze hit them. Cynthia hugged herself and glanced at him, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Albert Wilson, my coat..."
