Cold Husband Burning Regret: The Divorce He Couldn't Handle novel Chapter 24

A loud crash rang out as Charlotte swung the heavy glass ashtray, striking the man squarely on the head. He staggered back, clutching the wound, cursing through gritted teeth. "You crazy bitch! You dare hit me?!"

Without waiting for the others in the private lounge to react, Charlotte darted for the door.

She didn't even glance at her phone, which had tumbled to the carpet in the chaos.

Racing down the corridor, she could hear the thunder of footsteps behind her—her pursuers weren't giving up, and she knew she couldn't let them catch her. She forced herself onward, never daring to slow.

Suddenly, her breath caught; a wave of dizziness crashed over her, making her vision blur and her knees buckle.

Her body wouldn't obey—she collapsed to the floor, but somehow managed to cry out, "Help—somebody, please!"

She caught sight of several staff members in the club, but none of them dared to intervene. A flicker of despair flashed through her eyes.

Then a rough hand yanked her up by the hair, another clamping hard over her mouth.

"Run, huh? Let's see you run now!" the man snarled, trying to drag her back. Charlotte twisted and lunged, sinking her teeth into the hand over her mouth. The man bellowed in pain, his face twisting with rage as he raised his hand to strike her.

"Enough!"

A commanding voice cut through the chaos, freezing the man in place.

The moment Charlotte saw Jonathan, relief washed through her.

The man in the blue shirt regained his wits and jabbed a finger toward Jonathan. "Who the hell are you? This isn't your business—"

Before he could finish, Jonathan stepped forward and kicked him hard, sending him sprawling.

The rest of the group tensed, ready to jump in, but Jonathan's bodyguards—tall, imposing men in dark suits—appeared at his back, muscling the would-be attackers away.

Seeing the reinforcements, the blue-shirted man's bravado evaporated.

Jonathan shrugged off his coat and draped it gently over Charlotte's trembling shoulders.

She clutched the coat tightly, her entire body shaking. Her delicate face was swollen, a cut at the corner of her mouth still oozing blood.

Jonathan knelt beside her, steadying her with a hand. "Can you stand?"

Charlotte nodded numbly and, with effort, managed to get to her feet.

"Mr. Pembroke, what should we do with these men?" one of the bodyguards asked.

At the mention of his name, the blue-shirted thug visibly blanched.

Mr. Pembroke—

He's with the Pembrokes!

The Pembrokes weren't as towering as the old-money dynasties of the city—the Howards, Carstairs, Rayburns, or Sutherlands—but they were still among the elite, not people to cross lightly.

She stilled, clenching her fists, her gaze unwavering. "A woman's dignity isn't defined by what happens to her body. Even if they had succeeded, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken."

"I'd live. And then I'd make sure every single one of them paid for it."

Jonathan stared at her for a long moment before sighing. "Professor Carstairs asked me to look out for you. If he found out you were hurt, he'd have my head."

Charlotte blinked in surprise. "Professor Carstairs…?"

"He thinks the world of you, treats you like his own granddaughter. You know that. So tell me—why didn't you go to him for help?"

With the Carstairs family's influence, those men wouldn't have stood a chance.

Charlotte shook her head. "I just don't want to trouble him."

Jonathan studied her, uncertain.

Was it really that she didn't want to bother the old man, or… did she not know who Elder Carstairs really was?

He let it go. "Come on. I'll take you home."

"Thank you," Charlotte murmured. She was in no condition to drive.

They left the hospital together. As they stepped outside, a familiar black sedan pulled up to the main entrance.