Anger twisted his features, as if he genuinely believed Cynthia had done something shameful behind his back.
A mocking smirk curled at the corner of Cynthia’s lips as she shot back, “I was discussing work, obviously. Or did you expect me to be up to the same things you and Giselle get up to?”
Benedict flinched at her words, his voice dropping to a low, stern register. “Cynthia, you and Mr. Holloway live in completely different worlds. Sure, the Tremaines and the Holloway family used to be close, but that was a long time ago. Mr. Holloway’s just playing with you—he’ll never be with you, never acknowledge you in public.”
His urgent, self-righteous concern made Cynthia want to laugh—or gag.
She stepped away from him, putting distance between them as she waited for the elevator, her face utterly indifferent. “Benedict, just because you’re a pile of crap doesn’t mean everyone else stinks as much as you do.”
The disgust in her eyes was impossible to miss.
Benedict stared at her, frowning, his chest rising and falling with frustration. He still couldn’t get used to this—how the woman who once went out of her way to care for him now had nothing but venom for him.
“Cynthia, I’m a man—I know how men think. We’re all the same, especially the wealthy ones. There’s too much temptation in this world. Even if I stay away from other women, they’ll still come after me.”
Cynthia looked at him, her expression icy and unreadable, unruffled even as he shamelessly justified himself. Shameless, and yet so convinced of his own logic.
“If all men are the same, then why shouldn’t I pick the richer one?”
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