Chapter 172
Her legs were already unsteady. How could she withstand a drunk’s rough pull?
She tumbled into his lap from the force.
He immediately locked his arms around her.
“Cedrick, you’re drunk. Stop this nonsense, okay?”
She needed to leave quietly right now, to vanish without a trace and avoid any more surprises.
But Cedrick kept his arms firmly around her waist, his boozy breath hitting her face. “You know I’m drunk?
Your husband comes home wasted, and you don’t help him up, don’t get him water, don’t even change his clothes. Af- ter everything I do for you–do you think you’re being fair?”
Before Lucille could speak, he pinched her nose. “That’s your first mistake today. Here’s the second.”
“Enough. I’m tired and don’t have time for this.”
She braced her hands against his chest, trying to rise.
“See? This is why you’re so dull.”
He tightened his grip, refusing to let her go. “Just like high school. So clueless back then.”
Lucille felt like sharp claws had raked her heart–a burning, painful sting.
So her passionate high school crush just seemed dull to him.
They say drunk words are sober thoughts. These were his true feelings.
“And who isn’t dull?” she asked with a cold laugh.
“Maricela.”
He answered without thinking, “Look how clever she is. She worked so hard to plan this charity donation, but then pushed me to the front to take credit while she stayed behind doing all the work. You know, when she winked at me in the crowd… honestly, so cute.”
So cute…
Mr. Maynard was truly in love, even using reduplicated words now.
Lucille calmly unlocked her tablet left on the sofa before bed and recorded his words.
“Maricela, she…” He closed his eyes slightly, a smile playing on his lips. “…actually washed elderly people’s feet at
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Chapter 172
288 Wouchers
the nursing home. I was stunned, but she just said, ‘What’s the big deal? I did this when volunteering at the hospital.”
Lucille stayed silent, recording everything he said. When the truth about the volunteering came out, she’d throw this recording back at him. Let’s see if his face stung then.
“Grandma once said that volunteer girl was thin but so gentle–helping her bathe, giving her medicine, carrying her to examinations. An incredibly kind soul. Maricela … she’s still exactly like that after all these years…”
Suddenly remembering her presence, he opened his eyes and met her gaze. “What about you? Only I’ve washed your feet.”
True. He had washed her feet–back when her injuries hadn’t healed. So long ago. So long that she refused to revisit those painful, fragmented memories.
“Got nothing to say?” His hand slid up to cradle her face. “My Mrs. Maynard.”
“Well…” She pondered. “…why not ask Ms. Archdale? Since she’s good at it.”
Or he could have it done daily. Didn’t matter–she wouldn’t be around to see it anyway.
“You-” He pinched her nose hard. “Mrs. Maynard, have you no conscience? Jealousy’s making you bitter?”
Still thinking she was jealous…
He never understood: when a wife speaks like this, it’s not bitterness. Could it be… genuine indifference?
“Let go. I can’t breathe.”
Gasping, she slapped his hand away.
He released her but leaned back on the sofa with a sigh. “Maricela and I… it’s not what you think. We-” He paused. “Never mind. You wouldn’t get it.”
“I really don’t.”
She said, “They say a good horse doesn’t return to old grass. When she dumped you, she tossed you aside like worn slippers. Now she’s back, and you’re wagging your tail at her.”
He glared, offended. “Worn slippers? I’m worn slippers?”
Lucille scoffed. Obviously.
“What do you know? She’s-”
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