**Chapter 12**
Winthrop’s heart raced, and his eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the figure before him. Was he truly seeing what he thought he was seeing? The world around him seemed to blur for a moment as he instinctively rubbed his eyes, hoping to dispel the illusion. But there she was, unmistakably Yvonne, standing with an air of cool detachment that sent a chill down his spine.
So, this was the woman Thomas had referred to as his ‘beloved.’ The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning, igniting a mix of confusion and urgency within him.
“Yvie, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at home?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern, as if the mere mention of her absence could unravel the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.
To his surprise, Yvonne’s expression remained unfazed, almost as if she had been expecting him. Her demeanor was icy, her words delivered with an unsettling calmness that made Winthrop’s heart sink further.
“Thanks to Mr. Mendoza, I didn’t die at the Mendoza’s villa. I suppose that didn’t go as you wished, did it?” she replied, her tone cutting through the air like a knife.
Winthrop’s confusion deepened; her words were a riddle he couldn’t decipher. How could she even suggest such a thing? The thought of Yvonne in any sort of peril was unbearable.
“Yvie, what are you talking about? I don’t understand. Come here, come back with me,” he urged, desperation creeping into his voice.
But the reaction he had hoped for—a rush of affection, a willingness to be soothed—did not come. Yvonne was not the same woman who would once allow him to comfort her in times of distress. Instead, she instinctively took a few steps back, creating a chasm between them that felt impossible to bridge.
The sight of her retreat pierced Winthrop’s heart, leaving him breathless. “Yvie, what do you mean by this?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with anguish.
Yvonne lowered her gaze, a cold, mocking laugh escaping her lips. “What do I mean? Are you pretending not to know what you’ve done?”
Winthrop’s mind raced, grappling with the weight of her accusation. “What did I do? Are you still angry about those photos? I already had them removed from the trending topics, and the public uproar has long since died down, hasn’t it?” His words tumbled out in a rush, filled with a mixture of confusion and frustration.
“Yvie, I admit I’ve neglected you lately, but I’ve been so busy. Stop making a fuss, and when we get back, I’ll make it up to you, alright?” he pleaded, hoping to reignite the warmth they once shared.
“There’s no need, Winthrop. It’s over between us.”
The finality in her words struck him like a physical blow. Winthrop had always loathed it when Yvonne brought up the idea of breaking up, but this time felt different—more resolute, more painful.
Her cold and merciless tone left a trace of displeasure etched across his face. “Yvie, how long are you going to keep being so stubborn? It’s just a few photos—what does it matter if others see them?” he countered, desperation mingling with anger.
“Once the Mendoza Group is completely in my hands, who would dare…”
“Others wouldn’t dare, but you did!” Yvonne’s voice rose, nearly a scream, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his with a fierce intensity that made him recoil.
In that moment, she rolled up her shirt sleeve, revealing a shocking array of scars that told a story of pain and suffering. Her ribs were broken in two places, her fingers twisted and fractured, and her back bore the bruises of violence inflicted by the bodyguards.
Winthrop’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight. It was as if the air had been sucked from the room, leaving him gasping. “Who did this to you?” he asked, his voice thick with disbelief and horror.
All those years at the Mendoza’s villa, he had lavished Yvonne with everything he could offer, believing he had shielded her from harm. He had thought that love could conquer all, but now, the stark reality of her injuries shattered that illusion.
He stepped forward instinctively, yearning to examine her wounds, to understand the extent of her suffering, but before he could reach her, Thomas’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
“Winthrop, Yvie ended up like this thanks to you. So what are you pretending to be clueless for now?”
The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Winthrop froze, his body rigid with shock. “What are you talking about? I didn’t do it,” he stammered, feeling the ground shift beneath him.
Yvonne’s laughter, tinged with sorrow, echoed in the silence. “Whether you did or not, Winthrop, it’s over between us. I won’t go back with you. And I’m not your wife, so stop calling me Yvie. It disgusts me.”
Her words were a dagger to his heart, each syllable a reminder of the chasm that had formed between them.
“Winthrop, I’m determined to get this project. If you want to compete with me, then trade your shares in the Mendoza Group for it.”
With that, Thomas strode past Winthrop with an air of defiance, leaving Winthrop standing there, stunned and motionless, as Yvonne followed him out without a backward glance.
He was left alone, a hollow shell of the man he once was, grappling with the weight of her absence and the realization that he had lost her forever.
