The Last Time I Cried Your Name novel Chapter 320

Petty clenched her teeth, her voice shaking with fury. “You’re disgusting.”

“Me? Disgusting?” The memory of her in the car, her hand dripping blood, flashed through Franco’s mind.

She’d stared at him like he was a stranger, keeping him at arm’s length no matter what he said. Yet the second they arrived at the hospital, she hadn’t called for him—she’d called for another man.

Franco’s words came out cold and sharp, barely hiding the anger behind them. “You broke the agreement first.”

Agreement? Was that what he was calling it now?

“It was never a fair deal. Why should I stick to it?” She was still weak, and even speaking up left her short of breath. “I thought we still had a marriage. I thought as long as we were technically married, I couldn’t get away from you. But the truth is, you lied to me for three years. Three years, Franco.”

“An agreement? What gives you the right to control my life?”

“You’re a liar. How can you talk to me about deals? Do you honestly think you have any right?”

Franco answered slowly, like every word was chosen on purpose. “This deal never mentioned our marriage.”

Was he twisting words now?

“Fine. With Hans and the others, you agreed that the Green family wouldn’t lay a finger on Laura, and you’d leave me alone. If our marriage isn’t part of the deal, then neither is anyone else outside the Green family. So, what’s stopping me from exposing Laura?”

Every word hit like a slap across the face, digging in deeper with every sentence.

“You just want to protect Laura. Is it really that hard to admit?”

At last, Franco’s voice came through the phone, rough and low. “Are you doing this for Susan, or is this really about Hans?”

Petty was doing it for Susan and Hans…and for herself. But when Franco asked her that way, her answer came out before she could think. “If I could help Susan get justice, I’d do anything.”

Franco’s lips curved in a cold, bitter smile as he took a drag from his cigarette.

The black Bentley stopped in front of the detention center. Franco stepped out in a black overcoat, tall and imposing, his posture rigid as he climbed the steps two at a time.

He entered the cell he’d once been locked in himself. The iron door scraped open.

Inside, a broken man lay on the bed, barely moving.

When the guard called Franco’s name, the man curled his injured fingers. That was him. That was Franco.

He was supposed to be.

A bit of ash dropped onto his hand, burning his skin and jolting him back to another memory—back at the White Estate, when Franco had pressed out a cigarette on his hand as a warning to keep away from Petty.

This was the man who stole Petty from him.

Stole everything that should have been his.