From Discarded Wife to Queen (Tyrone) novel Chapter 434

**TITLE: Obsidian Dawn 434**
**CONTENT: Chapter 434 Favor**

Aella leaned closer to the camera, her expression resolute as she interrupted him, “I asked you to be my brother, not my father. Just take it easy, Tyrone.”

With a decisive tap, she ended the call, severing their connection in an instant.

In that moment, it struck him—he finally understood how to care for her.

But it was far too late.

Snuggling deeper into the warmth of her covers, Aella felt the soft fabric envelop her, providing a fleeting sense of comfort.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the line, Tyrone found himself wide awake, the weight of insomnia pressing down on him.

She used to speak to him with a tenderness that felt intimate, a tone that wrapped around them like a warm embrace. But now, it was as if a wall had been erected between them, her voice carrying a chill that cut through the air.

That tone—it was laden with meaning, a secret language that only they understood.

Every time she used it, it was a stark reminder of the pain he had caused her—a reminder to keep his distance, to tread lightly.

With each utterance of that tone, he was haunted by the promises he had made, promises that now felt like chains binding him to his regret.

It created an invisible barrier, a quiet distance that seemed to stretch endlessly between them, preventing her from ever truly returning to him.

She kept him in her life, but only as a spectator, forcing him to watch as she found happiness without him.

It felt like a slow, agonizing death, each moment stretching into eternity.

The following morning, at precisely nine o’clock, Tyrone found himself in the sleek confines of the CEO’s office at Winter Group.

Noel, his ever-diligent assistant, placed a folder on the polished desk. As he glanced up, he caught sight of Tyrone, who was engrossed in his phone, a pen poised in one hand while he scrolled through the weather forecast for Tuspuyria.

Noel couldn’t suppress a smirk—his boss was clearly lovesick, and it was amusing to witness.

He had already seen that WhatsApp avatar labeled “Wife” pop up on Tyrone’s screen two or three times that very morning.

Clearing his throat, Noel stepped forward, “Mr. Winter, Mr. Cunningham has arrived without an appointment. He’s requesting to see you.”

Tyrone locked his phone, his brow furrowing with curiosity. “What does he want?”

“I’m not sure, sir. He mentioned it concerns Ms. Caldwell,” Noel replied, his tone neutral but his expression revealing a hint of intrigue.

Tyrone pushed himself away from the desk and strode towards the bar, his mind racing.

In another life, Anna-Zera’s aunt had transformed into Mrs. Cunningham “by virtue of the child,” but that was a mere footnote following his divorce from Aella.

It seemed Anna’s connection with George had been “close” long before the Cunningham patriarch ever finalized his divorce.

Noel’s voice broke through his thoughts, offering a gentle reminder. “Mr. Winter, considering how much time has passed, the evidence we can present is limited. With Mr. Cunningham stepping in, and given the extensive Cunningham network, proving that the Caldwells orchestrated the crash for extortion is going to be quite the challenge.”

Tyrone picked up a glass and moved to the lounge area. “Send him in,” he instructed, his voice steady.

George entered, placing a small case on the coffee table with a slight tremor in his hands. “Mr. Winter, a token of my regard.”

George wiped the sweat from his forehead, his voice trembling slightly. “To show sincerity, the east-side parcel—Cunningham Group will cede it to Winter Group. What do you say?”

Tyrone regarded him coolly. “Since you are so intent on assisting this ‘friend,’ I’ll consider this favor sold.”

At last, he relented, and George exhaled as if a weight had been lifted.

Once George departed, Noel, still puzzled, remarked, “Sixty million from his own pocket, plus volunteering the east-side land—Mr. Cunningham is remarkably loyal to his friends.”

Tyrone let out a cold, nasal snort, dismissing the notion.

Returning to his desk, he checked the forecast once more—temperatures in Tuspuyria were set to plunge tomorrow.

At this hour, Aella would undoubtedly be at work. He hesitated, then decided to send her a text.

In the past, every time he flew out of Vleka, Aella had always been the first to reach out.

Now, as he waited for her reply, he imagined her suffering in the same way he was—staring at her phone, mind wandering, heart aching.

Even the mere desire to hear her voice, just a few simple words, had become a luxury he could hardly afford.

As he sat in the quiet office, he felt that familiar, dull ache begin to throb in his chest once more.

More than ten minutes trickled by without a response.

He finally sent a voice note, his tone casual yet laced with concern, “Tuspuyria’s cooling down tomorrow. Did you pack enough clothes?”