Chapter 49

While working in Theobald's office, she had developed a three-cups-of-boba-a-day habit.

She ordered a bottle of antiseptic, cotton swabs, and some bandages. The villa was in a relatively remote location, so she had to add a hefty tip to get a rider to accept the order.

By the time the delivery arrived, it was already eleven at night. Normally, Marguerite would have been in her room by now, but tonight was different.

She carefully dabbed the antiseptic onto the small wounds.

The cool sensation made George flinch instinctively.

Marguerite looked up at him, her eyes clear and sparkling. "Does it hurt? I'll be gentler."

George adjusted his glasses with his other hand and shook his head. "It doesn't hurt."

His body felt like it was on fire, but the antiseptic was cool against his skin. It was a strange, conflicting sensation that made his throat go dry. The girl was so close, her entire focus on him. He felt lightheaded, as if he were walking on clouds. The minor sting in his hand was nothing. If it meant he could keep her attention, he would gladly endure any pain.

The man's fingers were long and slender, his nails neatly trimmed and clean. After gently applying the antiseptic, the yellowish-brown stain looked almost comical on his fair skin. She then placed a bandage over the wounds, which somehow gave him a ruggedly handsome look.

Marguerite found herself staring, inexplicably flustered. She suddenly became aware of the silence of the night, of the fact that they were the only two people in the vast villa. They were sitting on the same sofa, the space between them feeling smaller than ever. The air was filled with the faint scent of antiseptic and a cool, woody fragrance.

It was all a little too intimate.

Her heart began to beat faster. She released his hand and blinked. "Try not to get this hand wet, so it doesn't get infected."

George lifted his hand and looked at it, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "Okay."

Later, lying in bed after a shower, Marguerite was still kicking herself for being so engrossed in her phone. Her wide eyes stared at the ceiling. She had discovered another one of George's good qualities.

He had incredible emotional stability.

The next morning, Marguerite went downstairs to find George in the kitchen again.

She sprinted over to him. "Why are you cooking? Your hand can't get wet!"

Seeing her worried expression, a wave of pleasure washed over him. "It's fine. The butler will help me with the washing up."

The butler, standing nearby, nodded vigorously. Yes, yes, I'll wash everything." He had no idea how his employer had injured his hand, but he knew that as long as Mr. Spencer had one good hand he wouldn't give up his new ritual of making breakfast for Ms. Lopez. He had thought it would be a one-time thing, but it had been over a week now, and George was still at it, rain or shine, making something different every day so she wouldn't get bored.

He could see it clearly now. Ms. Lopez didn't lack for money or love; her brother was

wealthy and doted on her. There wasn't much his employer could do for her.

"In that case, let me help you. I don't have anything else to do," Marguerite offered, her eyes on his bandaged hand. She wondered how he had managed to shower last night. Speaking of which. She shook her head, banishing the inappropriate thoughts.

“No need, the butler can handle it. You can wait outside," George said, deftly slicing

carrots. The contrast between his pale, slender fingers and the vibrant orange

carrots was strangely beautiful.

Marguerite was easily persuaded.

"Alright. What's for breakfast today?" She had gotten used to the chef always having something to do in the morning. She had discreetly asked the butler about it, and he had told her the chefs wife had just had a baby, and he needed to help with morning feedings. Marguerite thought George was a pretty humane boss, essentially giving the man paternity leave and easing the burden on the new mother.

"Today, we're having a fragrant chicken soup," George replied gently.

Marguerite's eyes lit up. "Oh my god, you can make that too? I bow down to you, master!"

Just a few days ago, she had seen a video about that very dish and bookmarked it. She couldn't believe she was getting to eat it today. What were the odds?

A steaming bowl of chicken soup was placed on the table. Marguerite took a bite. The broth was rich and savory, infused with the flavor of the chicken, and the noodles had absorbed all the deliciousness. She was in heaven.

"You are now second only to the God of Wealth in my heart," she said sincerely. George's eyes darkened almost instantly, his brow furrowing. "The God of Wealth?"

Marguerite grinned. "Yep."

George was speechless.