Divorce With Benefits: A Second Chance At Love-Chapter 130: The Illegitimate Child

Harold sat in the dimly lit parking lot, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. Lila’s words echoed in his mind like a haunting refrain, each repetition stirring a mixture of anger, disappointment, and pain that made it impossible to think clearly.

He didn’t know what to do, and for a man like Harold, that was maddening. Action had always been his solace, his way of dealing with the chaos in his life. But now, action felt out of reach, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess of emotions he couldn’t untangle.

Just as he was about to open the car door, a sleek black sedan rolled into the parking lot. The sight jolted him from his haze. Harold’s heart quickened as he recognized the man stepping out of the car—Arthur Sutherland.

Moments later, another van pulled in behind him, its tinted windows giving way to a group of men clad in dark clothing. They moved with precision, their postures rigid, and their presence screamed one thing: danger. Weapons gleamed under the soft glow of the parking lot lights as the men spread out, scanning the area like hawks on a hunt.

Instinctively, Harold ducked down in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. He watched as the men swept the parking lot, their movements methodical. Every instinct screamed at him to stay hidden.

After what felt like an eternity, the men regrouped and headed toward the elevator, Arthur leading the way. Harold held his breath, waiting until the elevator doors closed before he straightened in his seat.

Caution wrestled with curiosity, but Harold’s need for answers won out. He slipped out of his car and approached the elevator, hesitating only for a moment before stepping inside. As the elevator rose, he braced himself for what he might find.

The doors opened to the hotel lobby, and Harold took a quick glance around. Neither Arthur nor his men were in sight, but something else caught his attention—a familiar figure moving toward the entrance.

Catherine.

She walked with hurried steps, flanked by two men in sharp suits. Earpieces glinted under the light, marking them as security or operatives of some kind. Catherine’s expression was tense, her discomfort palpable even from a distance. Harold’s jaw tightened as he watched the men usher her toward the exit.

For a moment, he considered following them, confronting them. But then, Catherine stopped abruptly, turning to face her escorts. Her words were inaudible from where Harold stood, but her commanding presence was clear. Whatever she said made the men exchange uncertain glances before stepping back and leaving her alone.

Harold watched as Catherine adjusted her posture, her face hardening as she stepped out into the night. His confusion deepened. Who was Catherine, really? How did she fit into all of this?

He remained rooted in place, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Arthur Sutherland, the armed men, Catherine and her mysterious connections—it was all too much. Harold clenched his fists, his mind racing with questions he didn’t have answers to.

Harold straightened his posture and ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to exude the charm he was so well known for. He needed answers, and he knew how to get them—or so he thought.

With a practiced smile, he approached the reception desk, his stride confident despite the turmoil raging inside him. The receptionist, a young woman with a professional yet tired demeanor, glanced up at him.

"Good evening," Harold began, his tone smooth and warm. "I’m looking for an old acquaintance who might be staying here. Would you happen to know which room Philip Glover or Arthur Sutherland is in? It’s urgent."

The receptionist blinked, her polite smile unwavering. "I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t disclose information about our guests."

Harold’s smile didn’t falter. "Of course, I understand. But it’s really important. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t."

The receptionist shook her head firmly, though her expression remained courteous. "I’m afraid I can’t help with that."

Frustration bubbled beneath Harold’s calm facade. He tried again, leaning in slightly and softening his tone further. "I promise this isn’t anything shady. I just need to reconnect with someone I know is here. Can you make an exception, just this once?"

The woman hesitated, her professionalism wavering for a brief moment, but she quickly recovered. "I’m sorry, sir. Hotel policy."

Harold’s jaw clenched, though he masked it with another smile. After a few more attempts, his persistence began to draw attention. The receptionist’s demeanor grew more guarded, and Harold noticed her discreetly pressing a button under the desk.

Moments later, two security guards appeared, their stances firm and questioning.

"Is there a problem here?" one of them asked, his gaze fixed on Harold.

Harold raised his hands in mock surrender, chuckling lightly to diffuse the tension. "No problem at all. I’ll leave now. Sorry for any trouble."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, his frustration mounting.

But as he approached the doors, something caught his eye and made him freeze.

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Arthur Sutherland strode into the opulent suite, his polished shoes sinking slightly into the plush carpet. He barely acknowledged the warning murmured by his head of security as the door clicked shut behind him, leaving his men outside. He didn’t need an escort, not here, not in front of him.

Adjusting his suit jacket with a flick of his wrist, Arthur carried himself with an air of confidence that bordered on defiance. His smirk, faint but deliberate, was a shield—one he’d perfected over years of negotiating hostile boardrooms and turbulent family gatherings. Across the room, Philip Glover sat perched on a sleek leather chair, his fingers moving over his phone with precision, a faint scowl on his face.

"Have a seat, Brother-in-law," Philip drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. His hand lazily gestured to the chair opposite him, but his sharp gaze never left Arthur. He snapped his fingers, signaling his men to leave the room, their presence no longer needed—or wanted.

Arthur took the invitation without hesitation, settling into the chair with an air of practiced ease. He crossed his legs, his movements deliberate and unhurried, maintaining a calm exterior despite the tension that crackled like static in the air.

"Ah, she saw it," Philip said, his lips curling into a triumphant smile as he set his phone aside. "You’ll get a call soon."

Arthur’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, but he quickly masked it. His hazel eyes narrowed, scanning Philip’s face for clues. He hated how ambiguous the man could be, how he seemed to relish toying with others like a cat with a cornered mouse. Whatever Philip was alluding to, it carried an ominous weight that Arthur couldn’t ignore.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Arthur replied smoothly, though his grip on the armrest tightened.

Philip’s smile widened, his posture radiating self-satisfaction. "Oh, come now, Arthur. Don’t play coy. You got us all, didn’t you? Made us believe you were the perfect husband, the picture of devotion to my sister. Even I was convinced." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a scornful whisper. "But a child out of wedlock? Really, Arthur? That’s the best you could do?"

The words hit Arthur like a gut punch, shattering the carefully constructed mask he wore. His smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger and disbelief. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he struggled to find his voice.

"What did you tell Lydia?" he demanded, his tone sharp, his control slipping.