Sorry, I'm the Final Boss Now novel Chapter 137

Aaron lowered his gaze, not bothering to explain that he genuinely thought the answer was a mountain. He was afraid Marguerite might actually punch him.

“I was wrong yesterday, Maggie,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said Mr. Spencer looks old. He set up a foundation in the slums, and my tuition was paid for by him. The living expenses I received from them helped me so much. He’s my benefactor. I think I should apologize to him.”

His benefactor had given him money to live, yet he had refused to give his benefactor a single tube of scar cream. He was a terrible person.

The mention of it reminded Marguerite of her own lie to George. The meal hadn’t been cooked by her, but he still thought she had made it.

“And when you and Jenny disappeared from the apartment, George was the one who helped me find you,” she added.

Aaron’s eyes widened, a fresh wave of regret washing over him. Oh, God. He was the worst. He felt like he should get on his knees and beg for Mr. Spencer’s forgiveness.

Marguerite looked back at her phone, her unsent message still on the screen. She had been meaning to give George a proper apology but had forgotten in the chaos of the last few days. Since Aaron also wanted to apologize, this was the perfect opportunity. They could invite him to dinner, clear the air, and avoid any awkwardness if he found out the truth later. She didn’t want to damage their… landlord-tenant relationship.

“How about we invite him to dinner?” Marguerite suggested.

“Yes! Definitely!” Aaron said. “And I’m going to give him that scar cream!”

————

Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights blurred into rivers of color. A man in a crisp white suit, all broad shoulders and narrow waist, stood before the glass. The hand holding his phone hung limply at his side, the blue veins on the back of his pale hand standing out, strangely alluring.

Behind the silver frames of his glasses, his eyes were filled with a deep unease.

It was the first time he had ever initiated a message to Stella. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to before; he hadn’t dared. He was afraid of bothering her, and even more afraid that she wouldn’t reply. Just like now. The message was sent, and his mind was in turmoil, unable to focus on anything else.

He was terrified.

He didn’t know if Stella still needed his help.

He could go pick Stella up.

And Stella wanted to have dinner with him.

This was bliss.

[I haven’t eaten.]

George’s pale fingers typed the reply. He sat back down at his desk and set his phone aside.

With a delicate touch, he opened a white velvet box. He lifted out a small, golden puppy charm and cradled it in his palm as if it were the most precious treasure in the world, his eyes shining with a dark, obsessive gleam.

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