Delete My Love for You novel Chapter 211

Charlotte let out a low, humorless laugh, as if she’d just heard the world’s most ridiculous joke. Her lips curled, but there wasn’t a trace of warmth in her eyes.

Darren’s gaze darkened instantly. “You don’t believe me?”

Charlotte met his eyes, her voice clear and steady as she replied, “I do.”

A glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes.

But in the next heartbeat, she finished, “I believe you’re a bastard.”

Her tone never wavered, but every word dripped with icy contempt.

Darren froze, the insult hitting him like a slap.

A bastard? Did she just call him a bastard?

Those words pierced his chest like an icicle, freezing him to the core.

His hands clenched into fists as anger and disbelief surged through him. “You—you really think Bradley’s any better than me? Can’t you see he’s only getting close to you to use your talent and destroy me?”

Charlotte merely smiled—a soft, almost pitying smile.

“He’s not using me,” she said quietly.

She lifted her eyes, her gaze crystal clear and utterly calm. “Because destroying you is what I want, too.”

“What—?”

Destroy him?

That was her wish, too?

Darren’s breath caught in his throat. He stared at her, stunned, unable to comprehend the coldness on her face.

Images from years ago flashed through his mind.

Charlotte’s first visit to the Harrington Group to bring him lunch:

She’d stood awkwardly in the lobby, stopped by the receptionist, calling him with a shy little voice, “Honey, I brought you something to eat…”

He opened his mouth, wanting to protest, to demand answers, to shout—

But not a single word came out.

Every ounce of strength seemed to drain from his body. His rigid spine caved in, and his tall frame began to tremble.

His foot slid off the wheelchair’s footrest, shaking uncontrollably.

At the same moment, Charlotte walked out of the elevator without a backward glance, not pausing for a second.

Her retreating silhouette, cold and resolute, was the last thing Darren saw before the elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in separate worlds.

His strength gave way entirely. He slumped back against the icy wall of the elevator with a dull thud.

The air felt strangling, pressing in on all sides.

The harsh fluorescent light overhead cast a ghostly pallor on his face, his eyes rimmed with red.

The burn on the web of his right hand pulsed with raw pain—he’d gotten it that morning, lowering himself for the first time in twenty years to cook her a steak. Hot oil had splattered, raising angry blisters, but he’d bitten it back, not once stopping to put ointment on the wound.