Please Let Me Go, My Contracted Ex-Husband.-Chapter 88 - 90- unexpected event

Cynthia struggled to put on some clothes, biting back the intense pain in her abdomen. She leaned against the staircase, swaying unsteadily as she descended, nearly losing her balance several times.

The neighborhood was eerily quiet in the early morning, not a soul in sight. The area was made up of lower-income residents, and it was rare for a taxi to pass by, let alone stop. She didn't have the strength to make it to the main road, and for a brief moment, a sense of hopelessness washed over her. She thought she might die right there, in the cold, desolate neighborhood, at the brink of spring.

She had never felt so vulnerable, so desperate for someone to care for her, to be there for her in that moment. Her stomach continued to churn with relentless cramping, each wave more agonizing than the last, as if it would tear her insides apart.

Just when she thought she might collapse right then and there, a voice suddenly cut through the darkness, sharp and commanding. Before she could even comprehend what was happening, strong arms caught her, lifting her off the ground. She barely managed to open her eyes, meeting a pair of frantic, concerned eyes.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" The voice was full of worry and urgency, but she couldn't believe it. Was she hallucinating? Could he really care?

Her eyes began to water, her nose tingling with the sting of unshed tears. "I... I'm in pain."

"I'll take you to the hospital!" His tone left no room for argument, and before she knew it, she was being carried to the car. Her body relaxed completely, too exhausted to fight it, her consciousness slowly fading as her body gave in to the overwhelming pain.

Albert Wilson's brow furrowed deeply as he looked down at her pale, sweating face. His arms trembled as he held her close, his concern evident.

"Hold on, just a little longer," he muttered, gently placing her in the backseat of the car. He quickly removed his coat and draped it over her thin frame before rushing to the driver's seat. The car sped off, tires screeching as he hurried to get her to safety.

Albert Wilson's grip tightened as he glanced at Cynthia, who was curled up in the backseat, clearly in excruciating pain. His gaze flickered to the rearview mirror, watching her struggle with each breath. Despite the coolness of early spring, his forehead was beaded with sweat, his worry escalating.

Cynthia, drifting in and out of consciousness, could barely hold herself together. The pain was all-consuming, and she couldn't find the strength to explain what was happening. All she could do was clutch her abdomen tightly, teeth biting into her lips to stifle the agony.

In a moment of desperation, Albert slammed his foot on the accelerator, the car screeching through red lights, barely managing to stop in front of the hospital. He didn't wait for the car to come to a full stop, rushing out of the vehicle and carrying her straight toward the emergency entrance.

As they rushed into the hospital, Albert's pace faltered when they reached the gastroenterology department. Cynthia, in a final effort to redirect him, weakly tugged at his shirt. He looked down at her, confusion crossing his face. She barely managed to whisper the word, "Gynecology."

"Gynecology?" He repeated, still unsure. But as the realization struck him, he didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel and rushed toward the gynecology department, his steps faster now.

At the entrance to the gynecology department, the line was long. Albert, however, paid no mind. He charged forward, clutching Cynthia tightly, brushing past startled patients. A few grumbled in protest, but when they saw the state she was in, they fell silent.

Without waiting for formalities, Albert pushed through to the exam room, where a doctor was attending to another patient. The doctor's initial irritation at the intrusion melted away when he saw Cynthia's condition. Without a word, he motioned for the other patient to step out and quickly ushered Albert inside, ready to address the emergency.

The older doctor instructed Albert to lay Cynthia down on the examination bed, where a nurse quickly administered a pain-relieving injection. The doctor, his eyes magnified by his reading glasses, gently pressed on Cynthia's abdomen and then began asking her about her symptoms. After a brief silence, he looked at her with concern and asked,

"Young lady, have you been exposed to cold recently?"

Cynthia nodded weakly. The doctor sighed deeply and shook his head before turning to write a prescription, his voice filled with gentle admonishment.

"These young girls nowadays don't take care of themselves. They don't pay attention, especially when it's that time of the month."

The room fell silent. Cynthia, too exhausted from the pain to speak, simply lay there, while Albert Wilson furrowed his brows, deep in thought. The doctor glanced at them both before continuing.

"I'm not trying to scare you, but I can tell that there's a lot of cold in your uterus. If you don't take care of it, it might become a problem in the future—getting pregnant could be difficult, and you may not even be able to have children."

Cynthia froze at the doctor's words. She had noticed her menstrual flow had been much lighter since that cold night, but she hadn't realized how serious it could be. She had never imagined that it could affect her ability to have children.

Albert's face darkened, his gaze intense as it shifted toward her, carrying a hint of reproach. A sudden chill seemed to envelop the room, and Cynthia quickly averted her eyes, looking down in embarrassment.

Despite the painkillers, the pain in her abdomen remained relentless, and the doctor, noticing her discomfort, suggested she stay in the hospital for observation. He also recommended she get an IV drip for additional care. The news about her health was unsettling, and Cynthia, feeling alarmed, agreed to stay in the hospital, though she was shaken by the doctor's words.

Albert Wilson busied himself with the hospital procedures, but Cynthia, feeling a bit guilty, tried to ease his burden.

"Mr. Wilson, you should go back to work. I can have Laurence or someone else come to stay with me."

Before she could finish her sentence, he shot her a cold, piercing look, effectively silencing her.

He was frustrated, but couldn't bring himself to vent his anger. The woman was in such a miserable state, yet she still insisted on pushing him away. If she had shown a little vulnerability, maybe he would have been more inclined to care for her, but instead, she acted distant, as though she didn't need him at all. That infuriated him. Yet, seeing her pale, fragile face made him swallow his anger, his resolve weakening.

Once the necessary arrangements were made, the nurse arrived to hook her up to an IV drip. The solution contained a sedative to help her sleep and relieve the pain, so it didn't take long for Cynthia to fall into a deep sleep.

Despite the morning's chaos, this sudden illness seemed to have made him resolve something: sending her abroad to live her life far away from him—that was no longer an option. She was in no condition to be alone in a foreign country. He couldn't bear the thought of her trying to survive on her own, possibly not even knowing how she'd end up.

Stepping out of her room, Albert's phone rang. He glanced back at Cynthia, who was still asleep, and walked to the end of the hallway to answer the call. It was Lucca. She asked cautiously,

"Albert, has something happened to Miss Lancaster? I noticed your voice sounded strange earlier this morning..."

Her voice was full of concern, recalling how earlier, when he had shouted "Cynthia" in a trembling, worried tone, it was unlike his usual composed self. She hadn't heard him like that even when she had stepped in front of a bullet for him.

"She's sick," Albert replied curtly, irritation creeping into his voice. He tugged at his tie, trying to manage his own mounting frustration.

"And what kind of illness does Miss Lancaster have, to make you so worked up?" Lucca pressed further, her tone revealing a mix of curiosity and concern.

At Lucca's probing question, Albert Wilson fell into a sudden silence. She was right, wasn't she? It was just menstrual pain. Why was he reacting this way?

The realization hit him like a wave, and for a moment, he felt a pang of frustration with himself. Why had he lost his composure so quickly? Over the years, he'd faced countless challenges—life-or-death situations, intense pain, and suffering. Yet, here he was, completely thrown off balance by a simple physical discomfort.

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But as he recalled the moment when he first saw her, the memory felt distant, as if his mind had shut down. He hadn't even had the strength to process what was happening. Everything had been instinctive—his actions were driven by a mix of concern and an urge to do something, anything, to help her.

"Stomach problems," he muttered, unable to explain the depth of his own unease. For some reason, he didn't want Lucca to ask any more questions about it. He just wanted to move on from this.

"Alright, I've got to go to the office now. Talk later." He ended the call abruptly before Lucca could respond. He wasn't in the mood for more discussion.

After giving the doctor and nurses a few last instructions, he finally left the hospital, heading to work. The chaos of the morning had left Cynthia in a vulnerable state, and with her condition, there was no way she'd be able to meet with Vincent anytime soon. So, the matter was postponed indefinitely.