Delete My Love for You novel Chapter 110

Suddenly—BANG!

The taxi jolted violently, slamming straight into the rear bumper of the Lamborghini ahead.

“Oh no, no, no! How much is this going to cost me?” the cab driver wailed as he stumbled out in a panic, hands raking through his hair. A rear-end collision, and he’d be held fully responsible!

Charlotte’s reflexes kicked in; she reached across the backseat, shielding Ryan before the momentum could throw him forward. “Ryan, are you hurt?” she asked urgently.

Ryan shook his head, assuring her he was fine.

Charlotte let out a shaky breath, relief just settling in—when she spotted a looming silhouette outside the window. Her expression instantly darkened.

Out of the Lamborghini stepped a man she recognized all too well—the sleazy trust fund brat from the yacht: Elliot Quinn.

“Hey! Are you blind, cabbie?” Elliot barked, his voice dripping with contempt. “You have any idea what it costs to touch up the paint on this car? We’re talking six figures—minimum!”

As Elliot spoke, his eyes slid over to the taxi’s backseat. The moment he spotted Ryan, a nasty glint ignited in his gaze.

That kid again. The one who’d made a fool of him on the yacht.

The driver’s apologies tumbled over themselves. “I’m so sorry, sir, I swear it was an accident—please, it wasn’t on purpose…”

Elliot sneered, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Well, maybe there’s a way you can make it up to me for less.”

He jabbed a finger toward Ryan. “You—slap that kid across the face. Do that, and we’ll call it even.”

What? A single slap in exchange for a six-figure repair bill? For the desperate driver, it sounded like a miracle.

He rushed to the back door, his voice almost pleading. “Miss, please, just let me give your boy a little tap. I promise—I’ll be gentle! If I have to pay for his car, I’ll lose everything. Please, do me this kindness. Think of it as a good deed!”

As he spoke, the cab driver was already yanking the door open.

Charlotte’s response was ice. “Passengers have the right to safe travel under our contract. You’re the one at fault—why should we suffer the consequences for your mistake?”

Charlotte shoved Ryan behind her. Instinct and muscle memory took over; she moved with the crisp efficiency of someone who had trained for this, blocking, twisting, and—in a blur—she had the lead bodyguard on the pavement, groaning in pain.

“Oh? Looks like we’ve got a fighter.” Elliot’s stare hardened, rage burning in his eyes. “Use the stun batons. Let’s see how long she can protect that little bastard.”

The bodyguards drew sleek, black batons from their belts, blue arcs of electricity crackling at the ends. The air sizzled, the threat unmistakable, as they closed in—predatory, merciless.

Then, from across the street, a voice rang out—smooth as ice, and twice as lethal. “Mr. Elliot Quinn. Enjoying yourself?”

Elliot froze.

A Rolls-Royce had appeared at the curb, silent and imposing, license plate: 888888. The kind of number that screamed power and money.

Elliot strode over, peering through the half-lowered window of the backseat.

He saw who was inside—Darren.