Delete My Love for You novel Chapter 103

“Just delete his number like that?”

A glint of something sharp flickered in Darren’s eyes.

So eager to cut ties. Clearly, last night’s little stunt with the male model was just her knee-jerk reaction to that wedding invitation. Three thousand wishes, twelve years of love—who could just stop caring, just like that?

He let out a short, cold laugh. “Charlotte, keep pretending you don’t care. Let’s see how long you can keep up the act.”

Suddenly, Xena’s anxious voice came from outside the study. “Mr. Harrington! Noah’s been kneeling in the hallway for three hours. He still won’t get up…”

Darren stood up, left the study, and entered the living room.

Sure enough, Noah was still there, kneeling on the hardwood floor.

Darren’s gaze darkened as he approached, his voice cold and sharp. “Why are you still down there? Trying to break your own leg?”

Noah glanced sideways at Xena, then mumbled, “Let it break. Not like anyone cares.”

No one cares?

Darren felt a sudden tightness in his chest.

Xena dabbed her tears, voice trembling. “Mr. Harrington, Ms. Lawson just ignored Noah’s injury right in front of him today. She acted like it meant nothing. For a child, that’s… that’s devastating.”

Darren’s fist clenched at her words.

He could tolerate Charlotte pretending not to care about him—fine. But Noah was still a child, too young to tell real from fake. This, he decided, he couldn’t let slide. Charlotte had to apologize.

—

The next day, in a stylish uptown café.

Charlotte wore a crisp new dress, her hair and makeup immaculate, sitting across from Darren.

“What is it?” she got straight to the point.

Darren tossed a medical report onto the table between them, voice icy. “Noah’s been diagnosed with depression.”

Charlotte barely glanced at the paperwork, her eyes locking on the upper right corner. The numbers there didn’t match any medical association’s standard format. He was trying to fool her with a fake diagnosis?

She spoke evenly, “You and Noah have caused me a thousand times more psychological harm than I’ve ever caused you. When do I get my apology?”

“Charlotte! How long are you going to keep this up?”

Darren had officially run out of patience. He checked his watch, his tone turning frosty. “I have a meeting. This wasn’t a discussion—it’s a notice. I’ll text you the address. You will come tonight.”

Charlotte was about to retort when suddenly—

“Help—!”

“Somebody help my child!”

Charlotte shot to her feet and turned toward the commotion.

A little boy, no older than five, was gasping for air, his face flushed red, clawing desperately at his throat.

His mother, wearing a server’s uniform, was pounding on his back and pleading for help, her voice breaking. “Please—somebody help my son!”