Chapter 159

Marguerite burst into George's room. Their rooms were right next to each other, but she had never been inside his before.

She opened the door and saw the tall, slender man lying flat on his back in bed. A white comforter was pulled up to his chest, and an IV line was attached to his elegant hand, the pale skin showing a network of blue veins.

Marguerite's heart felt heavy, as if it were submerged in water. She rushed to the bedside, and his handsome, pale face came into view. His eyes were closed, his long, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He was completely still, so peaceful he looked almost lifeless. Even the tea-colored mole on his nose seemed to have lost its luster.

A wave of immense sadness washed over her. "Wake up!" she pleaded. Don't be like this. I'm scared. She had already lost her parents; she didn't want to lose a good friend, too.

She knelt by the bed and instinctively grabbed his hand. It was ice-cold.

Aaron rushed into the room and saw the figure on the bed. His voice choked with emotion. "Mr. Spencer! This is all my fault!"

Theobald entered the room, and his heart also sank. His left hand worked furiously over the prayer beads on his right wrist as his gaze fell on Marguerite's face. It was the first time he had seen such genuine sorrow on her face. Marguerite's feelings for Mr. Spencer...

Marguerite's eyes were fixed on the man in the bed. She held his hand with both of hers, trying to warm it. Suddenly, she saw his brow furrow. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he seemed to be in great pain.

Smack!

A sharp sting on his cheek brought George back to consciousness. He opened his eyes.

A beautiful, radiant face was hovering over him. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or awake. But a smile instinctively touched his lips. "Little princess," he mouthed. The words came out as a hoarse whisper; his throat felt like it had been blasted by a cannon.

Marguerite's eyes lit up when she saw he was awake. "You looked like you were having a nightmare, so I slapped you."

George was speechless. Her

method of waking people up hadn't changed a bit. That hadn't been a nightmare. Any dream with Stella in it could never be a nightmare. He hadn't dreamed of the past in years. He had been reliving his second encounter with her they had never seen each other face-to-face after the orphanage. The beach that day had been too dark to see faces, but he had recognized her voice immediately. He never expected to run into her there; it was like winning the lottery. She had slapped him awake and asked if he needed to go to the hospital, saying he smelled strongly of blood.

Perhaps when he took that knife, a dark part of him had a secret wish: he wanted Stella to remember him forever. People only remember things that leave a deep impression. Maybe one day she would have a career, a husband, children. The long years might make her forget the rival she had in high school, and the days they spent living under the same roof. But she would never forget that someone had once taken a knife for her.

In that moment, he could have just kicked the man away. But he didn't. That was his true, despicable nature.

"Oh, thank God! Mr. Spencer, you're not dead!" A head with long bangs popped into view, so close that his face was almost touching George's.

Now George was certain he was awake. He turned his head, cleared his throat, and managed to croak, "Who said I was dying?"

"The butler," Marguerite answered from behind Aaron.

Footsteps approached the door. All four people in the room turned to look.

The butler, who was about to enter, froze. A chill ran down his spine. He turned and

fled. "I think my appendix just burst!"

Aaron's mood lightened

considerably. "It's okay, it's okay! Then he saw George's face contort in pain again, and his heart leaped back into his throat Mr Spencer, what's wrong?"

George closed his eyes. "You're pressing on my IV line."

Aaron was mortified.

Realizing he must look a mess right now...