The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 593

Maria was thrown out, utterly humiliated.

As for Hamilton, Penelope, fearing he would go back on his word, wrote out a guarantee and made him sign it. Only when Hamilton's name was on the paper was she satisfied.

She got up to leave as well, but the next moment she collapsed to the floor.

"Ma'am, are you alright?"

"I'm fine… hic… I'm just going outside for some fresh air…"

The fall had sobered her up a bit. There was no way she could leave; she would have to spend the night here. Lydia's constant use of 'Ma'am' made her a little uncomfortable, but Lydia also mentioned that a room had been prepared for her.

She shook her head, got to her feet, and went outside, walking toward the beach into the sea breeze.

The ocean at night was as dark as a pool of ink, its edges invisible, with only the sound of the waves breaking. She just wanted to stand at the water's edge to clear her head, but after so much alcohol, her body was no longer under her control, and she stepped right into the water.

She quickly retreated a few steps and then squatted down on the sand.

Someone was next to her.

She saw him in her peripheral vision, a black silhouette standing still and solid as a mountain or a tree. A mountain or tree has no emotions, but he was angry. He held a cigarette, the ember flaring brighter and faster with his fury.

This man did not express his anger easily.

Even when he was furious, on the verge of exploding, his face would only grow darker.

What was there to be afraid of?

Maria feared him, Hamilton feared him, so many people feared him. But she didn't.

She tried to recall the most furious he had ever been with her. It must have been that winter when he finally found her in that small town. He had asked her why she insisted on a divorce, why she had to leave him, what he had done wrong.

That man, usually so proud and admired, had never been so cautious, so humbled.

What had she said? That being with him was painful and begged him to let her go.

Then she saw his eyes turn red. The cold wind of that year had seemed to crack him open. After confirming she was resolute, his face had turned cold, then hard, and by the time he looked at her again, there was no warmth left.

He had said, "Penelope, you gave up on me first. I will never forgive you. Never."

"Thank you for tonight," she said now.

The wind seemed to shatter her voice, as if he hadn't heard her at all.

It was better if he didn't.

"Why didn't you?"

"The thought of it became… uninteresting."

"Is that so?"

"Penelope, it's not as if I can't live without you. So what's the point?"

His voice was flat, seemingly devoid of any lingering emotion.

"Theodore, are you happy now?"

"Very."

"That's good."

Her last words were a whisper, spoken only to herself. The cold was becoming unbearable. She tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness sent her pitching forward.

Her head plunged into the water, and though she tried to push herself up, she didn't have the strength.

But a moment later, a hand gripped the collar on the back of her neck and yanked her upper body out of the water. She gasped for air, wiping the water from her face, trying to compose herself. But how could she not look pathetic? She was like a miserable, drowning insect.