Sorry, I'm the Final Boss Now novel Chapter 93

The clear, melodious voice cut through the air and reached George’s ears, making his body go rigid.

Behind his glasses, his dark, luminous eyes lifted in disbelief. A girl in a beautiful sundress stood at the foot of the stairs, her enchanting gaze fixed on his hand. His heart gave a violent lurch.

He clenched his fist, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

What do I do? I must have scared her.

A wave of panic washed over the usually composed and powerful man. He lifted a hand to adjust his glasses, a gesture of helplessness. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

In the next second, the panic in his eyes was replaced by a feverish, clinging excitement.

Stella was home.

Did she and Joshua have a fight? He was so happy.

After her cooking lesson, Marguerite had gone to her room to read. She’d decided to wait until she found Aaron before officially enrolling in school; she didn’t want to be taking days off constantly. The sweep of headlights across her window told her George was home, and she had hurried downstairs.

But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw the blood dripping from his hand, a frightening sight. She quickly closed the distance between them and took his left hand to examine the injury.

The man’s skin was cool and pale, his fingers long and elegant. His hand was still clenched into a fist, and blood seeped through his fingers—a stark, shocking contrast of red on white.

“Open your hand, let me see,” Marguerite said, her tone laced with genuine worry.

The soft, warm touch of her skin sent an electric current through George’s body. His heart hammered in his chest as a wave of pure bliss washed over him.

Stella was holding his hand again.

He didn’t want her to see the ugly wound, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away from hers.

The housekeeper, who had been thoroughly enjoying the romantic scene, was startled to be called upon. He pointed at himself. “Huh? Me?”

The memory of her warm, delicate touch still lingered on his skin. George shook his head, his voice smooth. “No need. I’ll take care of it upstairs.”

“Okay. I’ll wait for you,” Marguerite said.

George strode upstairs and quickly applied some antiseptic cream to his palm from his first-aid kit. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His foul mood had left him looking disheveled, his hair messy and his face drawn.

Why hadn’t the housekeeper told him Stella was home? He should never have let her see him in this state.

She had said she would wait for him. What did she want to talk about? Was she going to tell him she was moving out? The mere possibility sent a dark tide rising within him.

No. Absolutely not. She can date whoever she wants. I won’t interfere.