Chapter 484 No Tears for You
Anne froze, her hand hovering over the paper.
Willard stepped forward, took her hand, and guided the pen to the final signature.
"No, no, no!" Anne jerked her hand away, shaking her head in panic. "I don't want this!"
Willard gave a faint, amused smile. "I thought you liked money."
"This estate... you can live here if you want, even buy it. But if you were to buy, it would be ten billion dollars."
Her hand trembled so badly the pen nearly slipped. Her pupils widened, disbelief flooding her face. "You... you..."
Willard caught her hand again and forced her signature onto the page. Quinton, sensing the tension, quietly left the room.
"What else do you want?" Willard asked.
Anne couldn't answer. She stayed frozen in the position of signing, her body rigid. Willard sighed softly, reached out, and brushed her hair with his fingers. "Forget it. You don't have to say."
Her lips moved soundlessly. She wanted to tell him she needed nothing else. This one estate could last her several lifetimes. But no words came.
"Take it all," he said.
Anne pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, forcing herself to breathe. "No."
She tossed the pen onto the table. "That signature doesn't count. You forced me. Any agreement signed under duress is invalid."
Willard leaned back on the sofa, his posture loose. "Do you have any idea how much I own? All of it could be yours. You really don't want it?"
The sheer scale of his offer hit her like a wave, enough to make her almost forget how deeply she despised him. Almost.
Anne replied, "No. I don't want it."
"You're lying." Without waiting for her to answer, he said, "You don't need to sign anything. I can transfer it to you anyway. Don't feel guilty. I just don't know how else to make it up to you. All I have left are things that can be given away."
The arrogance in those words made her blood boil. Anne turned away. If Willard decided to do something, she couldn't stop him.
"You can't buy me with this," she said sharply. "I might like money, but not all money is worth taking."
Willard's reply was light, almost dismissive. "Eat."
"I'm not hungry," she muttered. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
He didn't stop her. Instead, he told Quinton to take her back. That alone unsettled her—what was he planning next?
"Can I video call Elissa?" she asked once they were back on the island.
Quinton nodded toward a man nearby. "Ask Simon."
Anne turned and saw him standing openly, no mask, no attempt to hide.
"Last time, he was the one who connected the call," Quinton added.
She walked over. "Can you leave the island?"
"No." Simon was already typing on his phone to request permission for a call. "I'm here to ensure your safety. If Mr. Larson ever crosses the line, I'll inform Mrs. Elissa Peterson and Mr. Francis Peterson. They'll take you home. It's not that they don't care—it's that they believe this is something you have to end yourself."
Anne nodded. "I don't blame them."
This was her choice. She wouldn't have stayed otherwise.
'If Willard breaks his word,' she thought, 'I'll take other measures.'
"Can I call Elissa now?" she asked.
Simon's phone buzzed. He handed it to her.
"Elissa," Anne said as the familiar face appeared on screen.
"What's wrong? Did something happen? Your eyes are red," Elissa asked, leaning closer.
Anne's throat tightened. Tears came without warning. "I just came from the auction..." She told the whole story. "I wasn't hurt. It's just... the estate."
"So you think he never hurt you before?" Elissa asked.
Anne hesitated. In the past, she thought Willard was cruel. But over time, she realized he hadn't been entirely wrong. He'd been forced to marry her. Why should he have treated her kindly? If he had, she might have believed he loved her, and she would have fought for him. But his coldness had pushed her away.
Still, since she'd asked for a divorce, his actions had been nothing but deliberate harm.
"He's still at fault," she said quietly.
"Then keep what he gives you," Elissa said.
"But if I accept it, won't he think it fixes everything? That we can go back to how things were?"
'So much money could fill any gap,' Anne thought. But money wasn't what she wanted. She wanted release.
"No," Elissa said firmly. "He's forcing it on you. You're not asking for it to erase the hurt. Keep rejecting him in your heart. If he still refuses to let go, I'll take you back."
Anne didn't tell her about the forced signature. She didn't want to worry her. "I'll handle it. I'll be there for you when you give birth."
"Good. And don't be afraid. If you're truly unhappy, tell me."
Anne ended the call, returned the phone to Simon, and went to bed early.
She was almost asleep when she felt something cool against her skin, but she was too tired to open her eyes.
Willard closed her door quietly and went to his study, where stacks of documents covered the desk. Quinton followed.
"You should tell Mrs. Larson how you got her mother's keepsake," Quinton said. "It might ease her resentment."
Willard lit a cigarette, eyes on the papers. "What I've done to her can't be undone by one gesture."
Quinton still didn't understand why Willard had pushed Anne away, or why he now refused to let her go. He knew Willard had gone to great lengths to secure her mother's belongings, even angering an entire country to get them into Anne's hands. It had cost him weeks of work and left him injured.
"Mr. Larson..." Quinton began.
"Do your job," Willard cut him off, crushing the cigarette and coughing hard.
Quinton brought him medicine and water. "The doctor said no more smoking. There's a shadow on your lungs. If you keep this up, Mrs. Larson won't shed a tear when you're gone."
Willard's gaze turned icy. "You're getting bold."
"Even if you punish me, I'll still say it," Quinton replied.
Willard waved him off and threw all his cigarettes into the trash. Quinton quickly took the bag outside and returned with hot water.
"Don't say more than you should," Willard warned.
"Yes, Mr. Larson."
Anne awoke early, hungry. As she shifted in bed, something hard pressed against her side. She looked down—and froze. It was the jewelry from the auction. Her mother's keepsake.
A knock came at the door. "Mrs. Larson, breakfast is ready," Quinton called.
Anne hid the jewelry in a box by her bed, then went to the dining room. Willard was peeling an egg for her.
"Didn't sleep well?" he asked.
She ignored him, sipping her porridge. He didn't push. "Bored? I'll take you out later."
She stayed silent, but didn't resist when he led her to the yacht.
The day was bright, the sea calm, but Anne's mind was elsewhere. Willard handed her a fishing rod. "This spot's got guppies. Land one, and they say it's good luck."
"How lucky?" she asked, her voice sharp. "Lucky enough for you to stop chasing me forever?"
"You can try," he said.
She cast the line, only to realize she'd forgotten the bait. Willard's quiet laugh made her bristle. "You did that on purpose!"
He didn't answer. She baited the hook and tried again.
"Sit," he told her, placing a chair behind her. She rolled her eyes but obeyed.
By noon, she'd caught nothing. "There aren't any guppies here," she muttered.
"If I catch one, you owe me a favor," he said.
"I'm not agreeing to anything."
"Fine. Eat first."
She went back to the fishing rod. Willard stepped up behind her, silent, watching as she worked the knots out of the line. She could feel his eyes on her.
"Not fishing anymore," she said without looking at him.
"Then don't." He reached over and ruffled her hair. "Too hot out here. Go inside."
She shook her head and turned her back on him. "No."
Willard crouched beside the rod, deftly fixing the line before sliding fresh bait onto the hook. With an easy flick of his wrist, he sent the lure arcing over the water, the line hissing as it unspooled.
She stole a glance at him—black shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled, dark trousers that caught the light, every movement measured and precise. His profile was all clean lines and quiet confidence. Her chest tightened, a faint hitch in her breath, before she forced her eyes back to the river.
"Come here," he said.
"No!"
He reached over, pulled her into his arms, and positioned her in front of him, hands on the rod. The weight shifted suddenly.
"Reel it in. Slowly."
She followed his instructions, and a flash of color broke the surface—a shimmering guppy, scattering sunlight in a spray of water.
Her breath caught. "There really is a guppy!"
Anne had dreamed of filming a guppy before, but she had never managed to catch one.
She had even considered getting into the water to shoot it, but the river was dangerous—Ernest had nearly gotten himself into trouble there once—so they had to give up for the time being.
They decided to wait for the right moment.
She never expected that, in the end, she would see a guppy while tagging along with Willard.
"Careful," Willard murmured.
Before she could answer, she felt something warm and heavy at her neck.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
