CHAPTER 22: CHAPTER 22: I WANT TO

At the entrance, Rhys Hawthorne bent down to take a pair of Hermes wool slippers from the shoe cabinet and placed them in front of her.

Victoria Monroe looked at the brand new women’s slippers, which hadn’t been there when she visited yesterday. It was clear they were newly purchased.

"Are these for..." She was always cautious when it came to matters between men and women.

If these slippers were meant for another female friend, it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to wear them.

After all, not having a girlfriend these days doesn’t mean one doesn’t have other partners.

The man’s gaze was indifferent as he answered frankly, "We’ll be collaborating in the future and will meet frequently; these are prepared for you."

Victoria no longer hesitated, slipping off her high heels and coat as she entered.

Rhys poured her a glass of warm water and sat down on the single sofa, straightforwardly asking, "You want a divorce?"

"Yes, but he is unwilling and has done some manipulations; now no one dares to take my divorce case."

The man casually toyed with prayer beads, his expression so indifferent it revealed no emotion. "So what are you thinking?"

Victoria looked down at the pure water in her glass. "I don’t want to take him to court; I just want to find a competent lawyer to handle the property division. After all, we have years of feelings; I don’t want it to get too messy."

She wasn’t sure if Rhys would agree to continue playing the role, only to fulfill a relative’s dying wish.

He had no connections with Julian Fordham, and even if he had contacts in this area, he might not offend Julian for her sake, right?

But if even this link was severed, she didn’t know what other options she had.

Victoria felt as if she had reached a dead end, with no way forward.

Having received no response for a long time, her head hung low, her heart restless and sweaty on her back.

The vast living room was very quiet, with the door to the front yard open.

The bleak autumn wind blew in, chilling her back and making her sticky clothes feel like the current anxious atmosphere.

The man stood up and closed the door, blocking out the biting cold wind, and warmth enveloped her from all sides, dispelling the chill.

"Sorry, if this makes it difficult for you, just pretend I never said anything."

Feeling overshadowed by a shadow, Victoria looked up.

Rhys was standing right in front of her.

His voice, rarely fluctuating a bit, stated, "Who said it would be difficult for me?"

After hearing this, a glimmer of hope appeared in Victoria’s eyes, which had been as dead as stagnant water. She licked her dry lips, subconsciously gripping her clothes, waiting for his answer.

Rhys stood in the nearly ten-meter-high living room, with the crystal chandelier above refracting cold light in the sunlight.

Behind him was a massive floor-to-ceiling window, with white marble pillars carved with dark patterns at the joints, grand and imposing.

Even though the villa’s decoration was quite simple, every detail showcased the inscrutable power and influence of the owner.

Just like the unfathomable depth in Rhys’s eyes at the moment, holding the prayer beads, his voice was low but carried an innate authority, "As long as you want a divorce, no one can stop you, not even Julian Fordham."

At this moment, the sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting warmth into the room.

And he, backed by the light, looked down at Victoria Monroe, who was bathed in sunshine, her skin fair and flawless, her features exquisite and pleasant, whispering devilishly, "Tell me, do you really want to leave?"

Victoria stared blankly at the man against the light, his sharply angled face immersed in dark shadows, like a fallen god, with a hint of bloodthirsty cruelty, making her feel in danger.

She seemed to see a demon clad entirely in black stepping out from white feathers, extending a hand toward her.

Behind her was Julian Fordham holding chains, attempting to bind her firmly by his side.

Before her was a path of unknowns; she did not know what the future would hold.

At least she was certain of one thing, she did not want to look back.

Even if the road ahead was full of thorns, she wanted to give it a try.

Her pink lips parted slightly, "I want to."

She stated clearly and decisively, "I want to divorce him. Can you help me?"

The man’s adam’s apple bobbed, his voice deep, "Alright."

She had not expected him to agree so straightforwardly. "If you help me, it might cause you some trouble."

A glint of profound meaning flashed through Rhys’s eyes as he lightly replied, "Relax, he can’t do anything to me."

Although his voice was calm, she still detected a hint of disdain.

Julian Fordham, who everyone feared and who could cut off her career with a single word, making her unable to find a single lawyer.

Yet Rhys remained indifferent, as if nothing concerned him.

Victoria stared blankly at him, "Rhys, what exactly are you..."

Before she finished her sentence, the man grasped her wrist. Before she could pull away, he asked, "Doesn’t it hurt?"

The hand she injured at home she had only applied some iodine to and patched up with a band-aid.

After finding out what Julian had done, in anger, she tore off the band-aid, and just now, in a moment of tension, she had exerted force, causing the wound to reopen.

The white hem of her dress was already stained with glaring red.

She belatedly realized, "It hurt at first, but now it seems numb."

The wound on her palm was like her soon-to-end marriage, excruciatingly painful when she learned the truth, Julian Fordham and his family’s actions slowly chilled her heart and extinguished her hopes until she became numb.

He released her hand, and when he reappeared, he was carrying a medical kit.

Victoria hid her hand behind her back, "It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m not that delicate; this kind of injury will be healed in three days at most."

The tall man crouched down by her feet again, taking out iodine and cotton swabs.

When he raised his head, his gaze was irresistibly commanding, "Give me your hand."

Victoria slowly withdrew her hand from behind her back and placed it on the sofa armrest, palm open.

Watching as that high mountain flower knelt on the carpet on one knee, his well-defined fingers holding her fingertips.

His body temperature was like the sandalwood scent he carried, intertwining over her.

The cotton swab dipped in iodine touched her wound, and the woman coddled by Julian Fordham couldn’t help but cry out, "Rhys, it hurts..."