After Divorce, I Meet my Mr. Right

My Husband's true love had returned from France, and we met under the most bizarre circumstances—at a construction site where we were both taken hostage. My loving husband rushed to the scene, calling my name. But when it mattered, he saved his true love instead of me. Later, as I clung to the hand of the policeman who rescued me, I noticed his eyes turn red with jealousy. ***** Declan and I were young sweethearts. Back then, after my parents passed away unexpectedly, I went to France alone for school and cut off contact with those relatives back home. In Paris, I waited tables, sold newspapers, and worked as a luxury sales associate. One day, a rich second-generation heir blocked my way at the store, demanding I have dinner with him after work. When I refused, he publicly demanded that I kneel and serve him. The other girls in the store covered their mouths and watched me become the butt of the joke. I was young, and my body trembled with anger. Tears welled up in my eyes from the injustice, but I stood my ground stubbornly. "Mr. Miller, it's disgraceful to bully a young girl in a foreign country." Declan's clear voice rang out behind me. That was the first time I met him. He wore a well-fitting coat, gold-rimmed glasses, and a work ID hung on his chest. He walked towards me through the thick Parisian fog, stood behind me, and glared at the rich heir surnamed Miller. The heir was stubborn. "Look at you, a poor journalist. How dare you meddle in my business? Believe it or not, I can make one phone call and shut down your lousy company." He cursed and pulled at me, muttering, "I'm going to make her drink with me today." Declan grabbed my hand and refused to let go. "How about I drink with you?" he said. That night, Declan got drunk. He smashed a bottle on the rich heir's head, pulled me out of the noisy bar, and took a quiet walk along the Seine. When he sobered up a bit, I asked him why he helped me. He said, "You're just a young girl; it's not easy for you." During the following three years of my studies, he frequently flew to France to see me under the guise of work. After I returned to the country, he proposed. He said, "Bennett, if I didn't like you, it would be foolish to fly back and forth between Chicago and Paris over twenty times in three years." We got married as we wished. For five years of marriage, he was an impeccable husband. He was gentle, refined, self-disciplined, and ambitious. After resigning from the newspaper office, we started a business together. We were only twenty-nine when our careers became successful. Many girls showed interest in him, but he just politely waved them off, our wedding ring shining on his ring finger. We went through an extremely difficult period. I worked on architectural designs while running around for his journalistic dreams. Countless times, he held me late at night and said, "Bennett, it's good to have you. Bennett, the luckiest thing in my life is meeting you in Paris." Before we turned thirty, both of our careers reached their peaks. I became a renowned architect and established my own company, while he held a prominent position in the top tier of the journalism industry. So when he was on a business trip to a poverty-stricken city, Sangin, for a research report, I received an anonymous MMS. In the photo, the man was hugging and kissing another girl. I almost couldn't believe my eyes. How could he, a man so gentle, restrained, and always rational, have such a wild side? ***** When he returned home, he brought me many gifts. Every time he went on a business trip, he would bring me something back. If it was a prosperous place, he would buy me bags and jewelry. If it was an impoverished area, he would bring me local handicrafts. At night, he gently embraced me, and soft kisses rained down. "Tomorrow, I have to go to Boston. The Dawn Building project we worked on will be inspected tomorrow," I said, unable to bear it any longer, and pushed him away. He showed no impatience and gently stroked my hair. "I'll go with you." "No need." Thinking of that photo, I couldn't control the coldness in my voice and pushed him away again. "I'm not in the mood today. I'll sleep in the study." With that, I grabbed a pillow and walked out. He froze, his eyes bewildered, as if he couldn't understand why I was acting so unusual today. But he still wrapped his arms around my waist and called out, "Honey, don't leave me alone." He rarely called me “honey.” He always called me “Bennett,” and in front of others, it was always "my wife" or "my love." There was a slight tremor in his voice as if he wasn't the successful Mr. Gonzalez, a prominent figure in the journalism world. He appeared to be unapproachable, yet he always revealed his insecurity and sensitivity to me without reservation. For a moment, my heart softened. But I still shook him off. That photo, in my heart, was like a poisonous thorn, growing into a swamp of miasma, suffocating me. He thought for a moment. "Bennett, are you angry because I've been away on business for too long this time?" He caught up and took my hand. "Or is it because I did something wrong that hurt you? Just tell me, and I'll change," He said earnestly. I looked straight into his eyes and sighed inwardly. I couldn't condemn him based on a single photo. But before the truth was revealed, I didn't know how to face him. The next morning, I left Chicago. After landing, the first thing I saw on my phone was the trending topic: Deben Group's CEO Exposed for Cheating on Wife with First Love in Sangin. ***** My phone was flooded with missed calls from Declan. There was a message saying he was already on a flight to Boston. Not wanting to engage, I blocked him for a while and went straight to the Dawn Building. I studied architecture, and even though my company had been established for a long time and was running successfully, I always remained on the front lines of construction. The Dawn Building had taken a lot of my effort, and it was now the most critical time before completion. But to my surprise, the construction site was in chaos. Several media outlets were camped outside, trying to break through security and enter the site. "Ms. Flores, you're finally here." The project manager handed me a hard hat and walked anxiously towards the site. "What's going on?" I asked. "The contractor hasn't paid the workers, and they're making a fuss. The media outside keeps filming, which is only escalating the situation. Now, a worker is holding a reporter hostage on the roof. The police are on their way," the project manager said, sweating profusely. "Who found this contractor? Our group has strict vetting procedures for contractors. How could this happen?" I frowned. "Mr. Gonzalez arranged for the contractor," the project manager said. By the time I climbed to the roof, the worker was extremely agitated, holding a drill bit in his hand. "Don't get excited! Don't get excited! I'm the person in charge. What are your demands? Tell me," I shouted. He was holding a female reporter hostage, presumably there for coverage. The reporter was very pale, her neck was red from being strangled, and her arm was injured and b****y. "Why haven't you paid my wages? Why! I have elderly parents and children to support, my wife is lying in the hospital!" The worker yelled. "Please, don’t do anything rash! How much does the group owe you? I'll transfer it to you right now! You have a family. Don't do anything stupid!" It was the first time I encountered such a situation. I was scared, but I still bit the bullet and answered. As the sound of sirens approached, the worker repeated with red eyes, "You forced me to do this! You forced me!" The female reporter he was holding hostage couldn't help but sob. I gritted my teeth, not knowing where I got the courage, and took two steps forward. "Wait a minute! Your wife is in the hospital. I can find the best doctor for her. Don't be impulsive!" The worker looked at me straight, suddenly rushed towards me, and grabbed my hair with lightning speed, dragging me to the edge of the roof. "You people you're above everyone else. Who have you ever respected? A few thousand dollars is nothing to you, but it's life-saving money to us! Even if I die today! I'll drag you down with me!" There was a slight movement behind me. I turned and saw Declan panting as he climbed up. He had lost his glasses on the way, and there was dust on his nose. Seeing him so disheveled and anxious, I couldn't help but cry. He slowly walked towards me. ***** "The police are here. I advise you to surrender. We won't press charges, and I'll double the money you need. Just don't hurt her," he said, steadying his voice. The worker didn't move or speak. After a moment, he threw his head back and laughed. He pushed me and the female reporter beside me with all his might. We fell forward, about to fall off the building. "Bennett!" Declan shouted and rushed forward. I stretched out my hand with all my might, hoping he could catch me. However, he lunged for the female reporter beside me. As I watched in astonishment, he grabbed her, and they hugged each other tightly. Bennett? I remembered the reporter's work ID that I had glimpsed at. Her name was Benny Collins. So, the “Bennett” in his mouth was never me. Then what was I? At that moment, I even forgot about the danger; half of my body had already fallen off the rooftop. Just in the nick of time, the police arrived. The police practically charged out, a safety rope tied around his waist, and grabbed my wrist tightly. I had always been afraid of heights and didn't dare to look down, so I could only desperately cling to the hand that saved me. It was a very young policeman. He frowned tightly, sweat dripping down his forehead, making his sharp features even more prominent. His straight nose and resolute eyes held a deep fear. Those eyes seemed familiar. As my thoughts flashed, I was saved. The young officer was very strong. He lifted me up horizontally and rushed downstairs, placing me in the ambulance. Listening to the siren, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Declan hugging Benny tightly in the distance. His face was filled with tenderness.