More Sexy

On the other side.

Cynthia's hands trembled slightly as she held the phone to her ear, listening to the steady dial tone. Yet, her gaze never left Roy. Biting her lower lip, her face was filled with guilt and remorse as she whispered, "Gina, can you come over? Something happened, and I need your help."

After hanging up, she took a deep breath and slowly walked toward Roy, each step feeling as though she were carrying a crushing weight.

"I'm sorry..." Cynthia's voice wavered with emotion.

If not for her, Roy wouldn't have been humiliated like this, wouldn't have been beaten so badly. She knew all too well who had orchestrated this—Lucien, the man she both feared and despised.

But Roy didn't know. At that moment, his face was twisted in fury, his eyes burning with rage as if ready to set the entire world on fire. His fists were clenched tight, his whole body tense like a provoked beast, ready to pounce and tear his enemy apart.

"You don't need to apologize. This isn't your fault—it's that bastard, that freak of a man. I won't let him get away with this!" Roy growled, his voice hoarse and filled with seething hatred, each word squeezed through gritted teeth.

Cynthia watched him, unconsciously tightening her own fists. Her nails dug deep into her palms, but she barely registered the pain. This was the second time Roy had suffered because of her. She couldn't let it happen again.

Before long, Gina arrived in a hurry. Cynthia and Gina carefully helped Roy into the car. As he settled into the seat, Cynthia looked at him, her eyes brimming with concern and guilt.

"I'm sorry, Roy. I have something to take care of, but I'll come see you as soon as I'm done."

The car slowly drove away. Cynthia stood there, watching until it disappeared from sight, then inhaled deeply. But instead of calming her, the fire inside her burned even hotter.

Turning on her heel, she strode back toward the building she had just left, her steps quick and determined.

She stormed up to the third floor of the private club, but before she could step inside, two security guards blocked her path.

One of them spoke politely but firmly, "Miss, this is a private club. Do you have an invitation?"

Cynthia's gaze turned ice-cold, sharp as twin blades piercing through the guard. Her voice was steady, each word laced with chilling resolve.

"Cynthia White, my name. Now go tell Lucien to GET HIS ASS OUT HERE."

Her lips curled into a smirk, but there was no warmth in it—only cold disdain and barely contained fury.

***

Meanwhile, on the club's balcony, Lucien leaned lazily against the railing, a cigarette between his long fingers.

The ember glowed faintly, wisps of smoke curling around his chiseled features, partially obscuring the unreadable depth in his eyes.

Just then, a delicate, porcelain-like hand reached out, brushing against the back of his own. With a soft touch, the cigarette was taken from him. A glass of red wine was placed in front of him, accompanied by a gentle voice.

"You smoke too much—it's bad for you." The tone was filled with concern and tenderness.

Lucien looked up, a fleeting trace of exhaustion flashing through his gaze. Without a word, he accepted the wine and downed it in one gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement.

Sandy stood quietly beside him, watching him with a sigh. There was an unmistakable sorrow in her eyes. "You're like this... because she's back, aren't you?"

Lucien's body stiffened slightly at her words, but he didn't respond. His brows furrowed, the frustration in his expression evident.

Sandy watched him, a pang of bitterness rising in her chest. Slowly, she reached out, wanting to smooth the tension from his furrowed brow.

But just before her fingertips could touch his skin, a sudden knock shattered the moment.

Startled, Sandy withdrew her hand as if burned, a flicker of embarrassment flashing across her face.

"Come in." Lucien's voice was low, raspy—laced with both laziness and irritation.

The door creaked open, and a security guard cautiously peeked inside, his expression uneasy.

He hesitated, then stammered, "S-Sir... there's a woman—Cynthia White. She's demanding to see you... and, uh, she said... get... your ass out of there." His voice trailed off toward the end, shrinking under the weight of Lucien's piercing gaze.

"Cynthia?" Sandy's expression flickered with surprise as she instinctively turned toward Lucien.

For a moment, something changed in his eyes—a flash of light, an unmistakable spark. It was as if a surge of energy had shot through him, washing away the fatigue in an instant.

Before Sandy could process what was happening, Lucien's voice rang out, low but urgent.

"Let her in."

He didn't even realize how eagerly he had spoken, but Sandy did. And that realization stabbed through her like a sharp thorn.

"She actually came looking for you... willingly?"

The door swung open, revealing a slender woman standing at the threshold.

Sandy glanced at Cynthia and felt her breath hitch.

Even she had to admit—Cynthia was stunning. Her beauty wasn't just striking; it was almost dazzling, impossible to ignore.

But right now, she radiated an aura so fierce, so untouchable, that even Sandy felt an instinctive wariness.

"You should leave."

Lucien's deep voice broke the silence.

Sandy pursed her lips, nodded wordlessly, and walked out.

As she passed Cynthia, she hesitated for just a second, offering her a brief nod—an acknowledgment of sorts, though laced with unspoken emotions.

The door closed again, sealing Lucien and Cynthia in solitude. The air between them grew thick, electric with tension.

They stared each other down, neither willing to blink first, as if whoever softened first would lose this silent battle.

Lucien smirked, his lips curving into a teasing, almost predatory smile.

He took slow, deliberate steps toward her—then suddenly, without warning, yanked her into his arms.

His grip was iron-tight, his muscular arms locking around her slender waist, trapping her against him.

"Why are you back? Did you finally realize he can't satisfy you?" His voice was husky, dripping with sarcasm as he leaned close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "You knie what. I haven't stopped thinking about you today. And I must say, you look even sexier than when we were married."

As he spoke, his hand slid beneath her clothing, his touch bold and unrestrained.

Cynthia's eyes turned icy, her gaze piercing straight into his. There wasn't a hint of fear in her expression—only a chilling detachment.

"But your skills," she said flatly, "are worse than before."

Her tone was calm, unwavering, as if the man pressing against her was nothing more than a stranger.

Before Lucien could react, Cynthia's hand moved swiftly.

From within her sleeve, a blade flashed into existence—a sleek, sharp dagger, now pressed firmly against his throat.

The cold metal bit into his skin, a silent warning. One wrong move, and she wouldn't hesitate.

Lucien felt the cold touch on his neck, but also just a slight stiffening of his body, the arm holding her did not relax in the slightest.

He didn't look down to see it, just an imperceptible flash of surprise in his eyes, and then returned to that cynical look.

Cynthia knew him well enough to sense his fleeting panic, and her lips rose slightly as she sneered, following Lucien's earlier example, "Wow, you're scared?"