Overwhelmed by the Billionaire’s Persistent Pursuit

Chapter 11: Greyson took a key from his pocket and handed it to Candice. "We can't publicize our divorce yet. This is the key to my apartment downtown. You can stay there." Candice looked at him in surprise. So this was why he had come to stop her. They had already signed the divorce papers, yet he still wanted to control where she lived? Somehow, she felt he didn't want to let her go. But what he wanted was none of her business. Why would she let herself be restricted by him?

What was most ridiculous was that Madilyn, the mistress, could live in the Harman family home while she was kicked out. Greyson's expression turned serious when he saw the contempt on Candice's face. He glared icily at her and said sternly, "There's no room for discussion. You will live there. Don't worry-I won't visit." Candice clenched the key in her hand. The edge was so sharp it pierced her skin. Blood oozed from the wound, but she didn't feel pain. Instead, she said calmly, "You'd better keep a close eye on your beloved Madilyn.

Since we agreed to keep our divorce secret, you'd better not let anyone find out about your relationship with her." Greyson furrowed his brows. Candice hesitated to ask the question on her mind, but curiosity got the better of her. She blurted out, "Are you going to marry her next year?" Candice watched Greyson, who stared at her without expression. She could only hear his breathing. She continued to stare at him, making him uncomfortable.

After a long silence, he finally replied, "I owe her a wedding." Candice smiled faintly at his answer and said, "Congratulations, then." Greyson had wanted to marry Madilyn for a long time, but three years ago, he was forced to part ways with her. It could have been because of Candice, the formula, or her mother giving Madilyn five million dollars. gαℓησνs․com offers tales worth telling The truth died with Candice's parents. Greyson hesitated for a moment and said, "Don't pick on her. She gets hurt easily, and she's no match for you." Candice stared at him in disbelief.

Her heart hammered violently. Did he say Madilyn was the one who got hurt easily? What about her? Did he really think she was indestructible and could tolerate all the heartache he had given her? She turned and stormed off furiously. She couldn't stand being there for another second. "It's late. Let me give you a ride," Greyson called out suddenly, reaching to catch her wrist. Candice couldn't remember a time he had ever taken the initiative to touch her. He had always seemed disgusted by physical contact with her, so what was different today?

She was stunned as she looked at his hand gripping her wrist. "Let go," she muttered coldly. She had given in to his occasional gentleness time and time again before. But she had had enough. She didn't want her defenses to crumble again because of his sudden kindness tonight. Greyson gripped her wrist tightly. The atmosphere was so quiet they could hear each other's hearts beating. The silence lasted a while. "There's something wrong with your heart rate. It's beating too fast. You need to go to the hospital and get it checked," Greyson said seriously.

He had been holding her wrist the whole time and noticed her abnormal pulse. Candice shook her wrist hard, sensing he had no intention of letting go. It was rare for him to be so persistent and attentive. She knew he had studied medicine, but at this moment, she didn't want to listen. She didn't need his help. They were divorced, and he was soon to marry Madilyn. He used to be so disgusted with her. So why was he pretending to care now? She broke free from his grasp and tried to stay calm. "Greyson, even if I die, it won't be your concern," she said coldly before turning away. Boom.

Suddenly, lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder rumbled loudly. Summer weather was always unpredictable. The rain began pouring down. Candice didn't want to continue their conversation. She dragged her suitcase past Greyson and stepped straight into the rain. She didn't even bother to look back. . . .