Sorry, I'm the Final Boss Now novel Chapter 92

A thought occurred to Marguerite. “In that case,” she added, “please don’t tell your master that I’m learning to cook. I want it to be a surprise.”

“What? You’re going to cook for my master?” the housekeeper exclaimed, his eyes wide.

Marguerite was taken aback by his strong reaction. “Uh, yes. Is there a problem? He doesn’t have a rule against eating other people’s cooking, does he?”

“No, of course not! He’ll eat it! He’ll definitely eat it!” the housekeeper said, his voice trembling with excitement. Was this it? Was the master’s unrequited love finally becoming a two-way street?

Tears welled up in his eyes. Noticing Marguerite’s surprised expression, he quickly composed himself. “You’re the first young lady to ever cook for my master. I’m just a little emotional.”

Marguerite shook her head. “That can’t be true. So many women are interested in him; I’m sure some have sent him food. You just probably haven’t seen it.”

The housekeeper didn’t argue. “Perhaps, perhaps.” But he thought, That’s completely different. The girl he’d loved years ago had once cooked him a fish, and he still kept the fishbone to this day.

Hearing that the meal was for his master, the chef’s focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. “Ms. Lopez, today I will impart to you all the knowledge I have accumulated in my lifetime!”

Marguerite laughed. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to learn.”

She spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen with the chef. The housekeeper even put on some background music for them, a cheery, celebratory song on a continuous loop.

…

In the CEO’s office at S.S. Capital, a handsome man in a white suit listened as a senior executive delivered a report. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the light of the gold bamboo-link bracelet on his elegant wrist.

“Mm,” George said after the report concluded. “Proceed with that for now.”

At seven in the evening, a gray Rolls-Royce glided into the villa’s courtyard. The staff had not yet left for the day. The moment George stepped out of the car, they could sense that something was wrong.

The man in the white suit was enveloped in a dark, icy aura. The staff also noticed blood dripping from the palm of his left hand, leaving a trail of eerie crimson droplets on the pristine driveway.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. But his presence was so cold, so unapproachable, that no one dared to ask what was wrong.

George didn’t need anyone to ask. He needed the pain to keep him lucid, to keep him from wondering what Stella was doing with Joshua so late at night. Were they having dinner together? Did they hug today? Did Joshua smoke those cigarettes Stella hated?

But as he entered the living room, he heard a bright, lovely voice filled with concern.

“George, what happened to your hand?”