Mr. Hawthorne, Your Wife Wants a Divorce Again-Chapter 1010: He Just Left Like That?

It was like a suddenly stirred vortex in the center of the deep sea, gazing at it for long could draw one’s soul in.

Ann Vaughn was momentarily dazed, and the bitter medicinal liquid trickled down her throat, making her scrunch her face in distaste, instinctively wanting to spit it out.

But Cyrus Hawthorne would not give her that chance, forcing her to swallow all the medicine in her mouth, and even then, he did not withdraw his tongue.

Instead, it went deeper, patiently sweeping across every inch of her oral cavity, tangling and sucking, as if determined to thoroughly check before stopping.

"Mmm—!"

Finally finding an opportunity, Ann Vaughn pushed against Cyrus Hawthorne’s shoulder to distance herself, wiping the corner of her mouth fiercely with the back of her hand.

Her slightly moist eyes were now tinged with a hint of anger.

"You—"

Just as Ann began to speak, Cyrus Hawthorne held a porcelain-white bowl of medicine towards her, his stunningly handsome face expressionless, briefly instructing, "Drink."

It seemed as though the lingering, passionate kiss earlier was Ann Vaughn’s illusion.

"..."

Ann held back her breath and accepted the medicine bowl, ordinarily someone terrified of bitterness, now downed the whole thing in one go out of sheer stubbornness.

As expected, her tongue went numb from the bitterness, and the taste kept surging up from her throat, making her want to vomit.

At that moment, something was stuffed into her mouth.

Sweet and sugary, her restless taste buds were instantly soothed.

Finishing one piece of candied fruit, just as Ann Vaughn was about to say something, another piece was offered to her lips, which she instinctively took and began to chew.

Cyrus Hawthorne watched her cheeks bulge as she chewed, habitually wanting to pinch her soft face, but for some reason, he refrained.

As she continued chewing the candied fruit, Ann Vaughn’s eyes suddenly reddened, negative emotions coming out of nowhere.

She turned and threw a pillow at Cyrus Hawthorne, her voice hoarse with anger, "Leave! I don’t want to see you!"

Cyrus Hawthorne’s jawline tightened slightly, his expression growing colder.

But seeing her teary eyes and the expression of enormous grievance on her little face, his heart, hardened within his chest, inexplicably softened.

All the anger melted away.

"Is it just today you don’t want to see me, or from now onwards?" Cyrus Hawthorne asked her in a low, gentle voice.

Ann Vaughn hadn’t expected such a counter-question, her eyes widened slightly, and in such a situation, wouldn’t most people ask, "Why don’t you want to see me?"

She was taken aback for a while before reacting, grabbing another pillow and throwing it at him, "I don’t want to see you ever again! Leave!"

Silence ensued.

Cyrus Hawthorne placed both pillows back behind her, gave her a deep look with his narrowed eyes, and immediately turned to leave.

He left just like that??

Without an explanation or an apology??

Ann Vaughn stood dazedly watching the closed door, pursing her lips tightly, the more she thought, the more aggrieved she became, turning around and diving under the covers, burying her face forcefully.

"James Vaughn, that bastard!!"

Outside the room.

Cyrus Hawthorne closed the door behind him and, with a cold gaze, looked at Mark Joyce, who had been waiting for a long time, "Report."

"President Hawthorne, all the surveillance in that room was completely destroyed and cannot be recovered, I’ve confirmed it. It truly can’t be." Mark Joyce reported respectfully, "And the maid who guided Miss Vaughn away to view the scenery is missing."

Everything was a mystery.

Perhaps only Ann Vaughn and Warren Vance knew why Ann Vaughn entered the wrong room that night.

And what exactly happened after she entered that room...

Cyrus Hawthorne’s long, dark eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of chill on his cold, handsome face, "Where is Ryan Wyatt now?"

"Still locked in the basement."

"Bring him to the study."

"Yes."

Before long, Ryan Wyatt was brought to the study, accompanied by a half-eaten, savory pork knuckle in his hand.

It took a considerable effort for Mark Joyce to bring him over, "gaining weight" were not words typically associated with imprisonment.

Faced with Cyrus Hawthorne’s cold, unflinching gaze, Ryan Wyatt stumbled to hold the pork knuckle, awkwardly saying, "Mr. Hawthorne, the food here is really good..."

Gothasen’s eating habits differed from those in S Country, and pork knuckles would never appear on the royal family’s table, even if it did, it would be cut into small pieces for the dignitaries to eat in a refined manner.

Even when served, it was boiled in plain water, utterly flavorless.

Unlike S Country, where even if you had pork knuckle at every meal, a hundred different dishes could be prepared from it, delicious beyond compare.

In just a few days of "prison meals," Ryan had visibly gained weight.

Cyrus Hawthorne’s expression remained unchanged as he took a sip of the coffee in front of him before speaking, "Does Warren Vance know how to hypnotize?"

"His highness? What would he know of this?" Ryan Wyatt shook his head, "These matters are handled by me and the psychologist. His highness naturally wouldn’t bother to learn them. Besides, his highness is a bit lazy, unwilling to handle things personally, unless it’s state affairs."

Mark Joyce at the side: "..."

This was being bribed by a pork knuckle, now even airing his master’s shortcomings?

"So," Cyrus Hawthorne leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, hands elegantly clasped, asking meaningfully, "He doesn’t not understand it."

"That’s what I am not really sure of. I have never seen his highness use hypnotism on anyone." Ryan Wyatt looked at the pork knuckle in his hand, his mouth watering.

Cyrus Hawthorne’s thin lips quirked slightly, then he waved his hand, "Take him away."

Mark Joyce immediately stepped forward, grabbed Ryan Wyatt by the collar.

"Hey hey hey..." Ryan Wyatt quickly called to stop, looking hopefully at the dignified man sitting at the desk, smiling obsequiously, "Mr. Hawthorne, can we negotiate? Are you short of people under you? The salary doesn’t need to be high, full board will do."

Cyrus Hawthorne: "..."

Mark Joyce: "..."

If Warren Vance knew a few pork knuckles could buy off one of his main men, he might just spit blood in anger.

...

After dealing with matters at hand, Cyrus Hawthorne returned to the master bedroom to find Ann Vaughn curled up in a corner of the bed, asleep again.

Tear stains were still visible at the corners of her eyes, with crystalline droplets hanging on her lashes, her pale little face devoid of any color, her lips tightly pressed, as though even in sleep, she hadn’t forgotten her anger.

She was sound asleep, blissfully unaware.

Cyrus Hawthorne’s eyes revealed a trace of helplessness, even the oppressive air in his chest seemed to be dispelled considerably.

He sat beside the heartless little rascal, lifting her from the covers, only to find her body drenched in sweat.

The air conditioning in the room wasn’t on, and her body temperature was high, yet she sulkily remained wrapped up for so long, of course she ended up sweating.

It’s hard to tell if she was trying to torment herself or him.

Cyrus Hawthorne sighed softly, gently unbuttoning her collar, undressing her from the sweat-soaked pajamas.