Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 103 - -Dream

"Oh? Who taught you?"

He raised an eyebrow, his long fingers casually pressing the cigarette butt into the ashtray by the bedside, as if the question was entirely nonchalant.

Cynthia pursed her lips and turned her face away, not responding. She wasn't sure if he was asking on purpose or if it was just a casual question. Horseback riding was a sport reserved for the wealthy, something only someone like Vincent, with his aristocratic background, could afford to indulge in. So, of course, it was Vincent who had taught her.

Albert Wilson tossed the blanket aside and rose from the bed. His muscular frame, bathed in the soft light of the morning sun, moved towards her like a sleek, alert predator. He approached her so quickly that it seemed he consumed the warmth of the sunlight around her.

He stood in front of her and extended his long fingers to lift her chin. He bent down, his proximity almost overwhelming, the faint scent of tobacco lingering in the air as he exhaled. He spoke slowly, with deliberate intent, "Vincent?"

A flicker of pain passed through Cynthia's expression, but she held it back, refusing to respond. Why did he have to push her into admitting it? If he already knew, why force her to say it out loud? She simply glanced at him and remained silent.

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Albert, evidently displeased with her lack of response, exerted a little more pressure. His fingers forced her head back with enough force that she could hear a sharp crack in her neck as it snapped.

"Then let me see your riding skills," he said coldly before turning and heading into the bathroom.

Cynthia stood there, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Her riding skills? After all, she had been trained by Vincent, a man who was patient and meticulous. There was no way her skills were lacking.

And back then, when she had been the woman he loved most, he would have done anything to make her happy. When she was sad or upset, he would take her to the racetrack, where they'd gallop together for a few laps to clear her mind.

Because Vincent knew her well—she was the type who didn't argue, didn't complain, didn't express her feelings or burdens aloud. Everything stayed buried inside her. That's why, for someone like her, horseback riding—sweating it out, physically exerting herself—was the most suitable way to vent.

This man, with so many ways to pass the time, why did he choose horseback riding?

Cynthia continued to reminisce about those beautiful memories as she dried her hair and changed into a new outfit.

Albert Wilson emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel, his short hair still dripping water. He crouched down, rummaging through the suitcase she had brought him, looking for clothes to wear. The more he searched, the darker his expression became. Finally, he stood up, his face a deep shade of displeasure, and turned to Cynthia, already dressed and looking put together.

He gave her a cold look and then accused her, "Woman, your taste is absolutely dreadful!"

The clothes she had brought for him—nothing matched. There were mismatched colors and styles, all casual wear. Not a single formal suit.

He had an entire wardrobe of clothes, and this is what she had chosen to bring him? His dark eyes narrowed with irritation as he shot another glance at her. At that moment, she was wearing a black T-shirt, light blue distressed jeans, and her wine-red hair was tied up high in a bun.

She looked clean, fresh, and somewhat effortlessly cool, but her outfit only seemed to deepen his frustration. He furrowed his brow, questioning whether she had deliberately messed up his clothes selection.

The sight of his frustration put a satisfied smile on Cynthia's face. He had asked her to help pack, so she had made sure to "help" him in the most thorough way possible. That's how he ended up with this mismatched collection.

Yet, she pretended to be innocent, playing the part of the unsuspecting helper.

"What's wrong?" she asked, feigning confusion.

"Look at the clothes you brought me," he replied, his voice sharp with displeasure.

Albert Wilson was livid as he watched her act so nonchalantly. He prided himself on his appearance and demeanor, and the thought of being forced to wear such an outfit made him want to scream.

Cynthia, however, feigned innocence and shrugged casually, "Sorry, Mr. Wilson, I'm not really good at matching men's clothes. My bad!"

"And you didn't even bring me a single formal suit?" Albert said, getting more agitated by the second. As he spoke, he kicked the large suitcase in frustration, forgetting that he was only wearing slippers. The pain from his toe made him grimace and curse under his breath.

Trying to suppress her laughter, Cynthia lowered her head, pretending to be sorry as she muttered quietly, "But we're on vacation, right? Why would you need a suit?"

Seeing the way she tried to hold back her amusement, Albert's temper finally boiled over. "Don't you know that when men go out, there might be social events or occasions where they need to dress up?"

Cynthia, still holding back her smile, shot back, "How should I know? I'm not a man!"

Cynthia stood frozen for a moment, stunned by his outburst. It was just clothes—did he really need to get so worked up? Besides, with his figure and charm, any outfit would look outstanding on him.

But what she didn't realize was that Albert's frustration stemmed from something deeper—her casual indifference and the way she so easily dismissed him. Perhaps, even Albert himself didn't fully grasp that his anger was actually rooted in feeling overlooked.

She had confidently spoken her piece, and Albert had no real retort. After all, it was he who had asked her to pack his things. Now that they were a mess, he couldn't really blame her.

The tension hung in the air as Albert irritably ruffled his hair, muttering a curse before grabbing a few items from the suitcase and heading for the bathroom. Cynthia let out a long sigh of relief, feeling the tension ease for a moment.

However, when Albert emerged from the bathroom, Cynthia froze in embarrassment. He had put on the same black T-shirt and light blue distressed jeans she was wearing. Though the fabric was different—his being expensive and hers more modest—the colors matched perfectly, turning them into a living version of couple's attire.

To her surprise, the outfit suited him even better than she could have imagined. The simplicity of the clothes only highlighted his lean, sharp features, making him appear even more striking. The black T-shirt accentuated his slender build and gave him an air of effortless cool.

For a brief moment, Cynthia regretted her little prank. If she had just packed him some formal clothes, this awkward match-up could have been avoided. After all, her clothes were chosen for comfort, with little thought of formality.

Seeing her discomfort, Albert's displeasure finally softened. With a slight smirk, he walked over and casually draped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the door.

"Let's go," he said with a slight grin. "Let's take a walk."

Cynthia felt a wave of discomfort as Albert's arm tightened around her shoulders. She wasn't used to such closeness and immediately tried to shake him off, her voice filled with unease.

"Albert Wilson, stop holding onto me like this! I can't even walk properly!"

Indeed, she could barely move, his arm over her shoulder making her stiffen. She felt like she was being dragged along. Albert, however, loosened his grip but quickly found another way to keep hold of her—his large hand sliding down her back to grasp her small hand, pulling her even closer as he leaned in, his warm breath grazing her ear.

"Now, can you walk?"

Her face flushed a shade of red. She wanted to say something, to suggest that maybe he should just keep holding her shoulder. At least then, she wouldn't feel the overwhelming heat radiating from the touch of their palms pressed so closely together.

The summer heat only made it worse—her palm was damp, and with his large strides, she found herself falling behind him, her body trailing him as he led their way forward. To anyone else, it might have looked like the sweetest thing, an image of harmony and intimacy.

Their distance wasn't too close to be suffocating, nor too far apart to seem detached—it was perfect. It seemed as if Albert was guiding her, shielding her from the world, with her freedom and security lying in the space he created around her.

As they walked into the hotel's lobby, they appeared like a couple, their matching outfits a subtle declaration of their closeness. Albert's striking presence and Cynthia's shy, lowered gaze created a picture-perfect moment.

However, the moment they stepped outside, the sweetness of their walk was abruptly shattered. The hotel they were staying at had an air of ancient grandeur, surrounded by a sprawling lavender field, its vibrant purple blooms almost overwhelming in their richness. The beauty of it should have been relaxing, but for Cynthia, it caused an immediate shift. Her face paled, and her mind spiraled back to another memory, another time.

A soft, melodic laugh echoed in her mind:

"Vince, when we get married, our honeymoon must be in Provence. Can we?"

A girl, her wrist adorned with a purple satin ribbon, playfully clung to the man absorbed in his book, her face glowing with happiness.

"Of course, my little princess. Wherever you want to go, we'll go," he had said, pulling her into a gentle kiss, his eyes filled with love.

"If you want, I'll buy a house there, and we'll live there forever," Vincent had promised, his words wrapped in affection.

Every time they talked about it, Cynthia would laugh, nestled in his embrace. The lavender fields of Provence, with their mesmerizing purple hue, had always been her dream. She had long imagined spending her life in that purple kingdom, her love by her side. It was a vision of happiness she could never forget.

But now, as she stood in front of the same purple sea of lavender, her heart tightened with a mix of pain and longing. The memory of those conversations, of that dream, felt like an impossible wish from another life.