Inside the car.
Cynthia, blocked by Albert Wilson, didn't notice what was happening outside. Her attention was entirely captured by the suddenly magnified, handsome face in front of her.
"Who hit you?"
He asked again, this time with anger creeping into his voice.
Cynthia, who had recovered from her initial panic, now looked at him calmly with her dark, glassy eyes. After a long pause, she pushed him away and sat up straight.
"Is it really necessary to care so much? At best... we're just strangers."
"I asked you, who hit you?"
He suddenly shouted, the grip on her chin tightening painfully, making her wince.
Once Albert Wilson marked something as his, even if he had no love or hatred toward it, he couldn't tolerate it being humiliated by others. He was always proud and dignified, and everything around him inherited that same sense of arrogance.
He wasn't sure whether it was his own habits that made him furious or her indifferent attitude, but either way, he felt an unprecedented surge of anger.
Startled by his outburst, Cynthia pressed her lips together and finally answered,
"Doreen Lancaster!"
He shot her a dark, piercing look before abruptly releasing her, retreating to the driver's seat and starting the car again. *Doreen Lancaster?* he thought grimly. *Dare to lay a hand on my person? I'll make sure you suffer.*
Because of this brief episode, the already tense atmosphere between them became even more suffocating. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken tension.
After a long silence, she suddenly broke the deadlock, turning to size him up with her bright, discerning eyes.
"You're going to take action against the Lancaster family?"
Though phrased as a question, her tone was filled with certainty.
A flash of surprise crossed his deep, enigmatic eyes, but it quickly disappeared. He curled his lips into a half-smile, almost as if making light of the situation.
"Too clever of a woman isn't usually to a man's liking," he remarked playfully.
"Be careful you don't back the wrong horse," she replied coldly, her expression complex. After those few words, she fell silent again. She knew well enough not to delve too deep. There were things she understood, things she could just keep to herself.
Albert Wilson's long fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He hadn't expected her to see through him so clearly, and even more so, he was taken aback by how calmly she spoke after understanding his intentions.
What astonished him most was her cryptic warning. As his sharp eyes focused on the road ahead, a hint of curiosity flickered within.
Just what kind of person is this youngest daughter of the Lancaster family?
he wondered.
Taking advantage of the opening she had given him, he began to engage in casual conversation, his tone light and untroubled.
"What did you major in at university?"
After asking the question, he realized something: from the moment they first met, he had been the one taking the initiative, driving the conversation. Meanwhile, she remained unfazed, neither cold nor warm, holding her ground in a world of her own. Up to this point, he knew nothing about her beyond her name.
What does it mean when a man suddenly feels an inexplicable curiosity about a woman, and even more, when he uncharacteristically makes the first move? Could this be the beginning of love?
That thought unsettled him. Albert Wilson was not the kind of man who allowed his emotions to steer his actions, yet here he was, caught off guard by this woman who barely acknowledged his presence. She had unknowingly stirred something within him—a quiet, simmering intrigue he couldn't quite place.
When he asked her what she majored in, she leaned back lazily in her seat, tilting her head as if in thought, then said with an air of uncertainty, "Maybe literature?"
With her hood still on, he could see her sharp nose and delicate profile from the corner of his eye, and for a brief moment, the slight frown on her face struck him as somewhat endearing. But her vague answer immediately dispelled that notion.
"Maybe?" he repeated, a bit exasperated. Could she really not know her own major? She truly was odd.
"Mm," she responded with a calm hum, completely unfazed by his surprise, then turned her head, making it clear she had no interest in continuing the conversation.
He suddenly found talking to her exhausting—mentally draining, even. The feeling of not being in control frustrated him. If this conversation continued, he feared he'd lose his composure. So he, too, fell into silence.
After all, he was willing to marry her, and she seemed willing to go along with it. It should have been a simple arrangement. So why was it leaving him so worn out?
His true focus should be on making those who destroyed his family pay. The thought of revenge darkened his expression, his foot pressing harder on the gas, sending the silver-gray car speeding forward with a cold intensity.
Noticing his sudden shift, Cynthia glanced at him briefly but remained quiet. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure what she had majored in either. She had never been interested in her studies. In fact, she had skipped more classes than she'd attended in the past two years.
Back in high school, she completely copied her friend Bonnie's college application choices. At that time, girls were always a bit sentimental, especially since she was from a humanities background. Bonnie's dream was to become a literary star.
With her long hair flowing and dressed in white, Bonnie strolled through the university's tree-lined paths, turning heads and catching catcalls from boys. Now, "literary star" Bonnie had made it; she aced every exam and was the top of her literature program, with her articles popping up everywhere—online, in newspapers, and magazines.
Thank goodness for Bonnie; otherwise, her own exam scores would have been disastrous.
Lost in her thoughts, the car pulled up to her school gate. She muttered a quiet thanks and turned to get out, but he grabbed her hand unexpectedly. She jumped and shot him an annoyed glare.
She really hated how this guy always put his hands on her. It reminded her of that possessive kiss he'd just given her back at her house. He simply chuckled and nodded toward the seat she'd just vacated. Confused, she glanced back, and her face flushed bright red.
There, on the beige leather seat, was a stark crimson stain. Oh no! She was on her period! Usually, she'd have cramps or some warning, but this time, it had come out of nowhere, leaving her in a completely embarrassing situation.
For a moment, she stood there in embarrassment, unsure of what to do. No matter how composed she had been throughout the ride, it was impossible to stay calm now that a man—especially one she barely knew—had witnessed such a personal moment.
"Get in the car," he said, releasing her hand with a casual tone. A mischievous glint flickered in his eyes, and, with her cheeks burning, she climbed into the car like a chastened child.
She couldn't even think about where he was taking her. Instead, she sank into her seat, staring down at her tightly clenched fingers. It felt as if her face was on fire, the heat searing her cheeks.
Albert Wilson drove leisurely, stealing glances at her flushed face. His mood brightened; it seemed that women were always better off being a bit vulnerable. Her earlier, unyielding demeanor had been frustrating, but now, she was something different.
The car pulled into a mall parking lot, and he got out, his tall frame standing out among the crowd.
Cynthia watched him disappear into the throng, pulling down the sun visor to check her reflection. Her face was even redder than she had imagined. Leaning back in her seat, she sighed dramatically. "Damn it, Aunt Flo! Why did you have to show up now? Of all times, you choose this moment to embarrass me!"
Moments later, he returned with an armful of items and opened her door, handing her a bag filled with supplies. She glanced inside and saw pads, along with a variety of clothes—pants, skirts, everything. Heat rushed to her face again, and she muttered softly, "Thanks."
She quickly grabbed a pair of pants and the pads, ready to make a hasty exit. But he caught her hand again. Looking up at him, she felt the awkwardness settle in.
She hadn't realized how short she was—his chest was at her eye level, and he towered over her like a solid wall. Her heart raced, warmth blooming in her chest.
But what was he going to do next?