<b>Chapter </b><b>423 </b>
<b>In </b>the kitchen, Delh was bustling about when Mirabe strolled in and casually <b>asked</b><b>, </b>“Mom, did Donald leave?”
Without turning around and without correcting her daughter’s informal address, Delh responded, “He must’ve caught a chillst night. He’s been under the weather all day. He <b>just </b>took some medicine and went back to his room to rest.”
Mirabe frowned upon hearing this. What was this old con artist up to now?
“I’m going to check on him,” Mirabe dered.
With a wave of her hand, Delh said, “Go ahead.<b>” </b>
Swiftly, Mirabe climbed the stairs. The guest room door was unlocked. She turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The room was draped in darkness, curtains pulled tight, void of any sliver of light, stale <b>and </b>stuffy. Flicking on the chandelier, Mirabe’s gaze settled on the bed, pausing for a moment before she approached. Therey Donald, eyes closed,plexion not quite right.
Was he actually sick?
Donald was not deeply asleep, just lethargic. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open to find Mirabe staring intently at him. With little energy, he murmured, “What, happy to see meid up sick?”
Mirabe shot him a look. “You’ve got enough strength to talk, so you can’t be that bad
off.”
At that, Donald felt his head spin even more. “You’re heartless.”
“Oh, a heart’s not required for dealing with a professional scammer like you,” Mirabe retorted, her voice as cool <b>as </b>ever.
Donald just pulled the covers over his head. “Get out, will you? Don’t make my illness–or <b>my </b>irritation–worse. I might end up never leaving your ce.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Mirabe walked over to the window and shoved it open. Fresh air rushed in, dispelling the oppressive atmosphere.
Donald peeked out from under the nket, and seeing Mirabe hadn’t left, he felt a reluctant sense of relief, though he still grumbled, “Why are you still here?”
Mirabe returned to the bedside and, ignoring hisints<b>, </b>reached out and grasped his wrist<b>, </b>which was resting atop the nket.
“What are <b>you </b>doing?” Donald recoiled at her sudden move<b>, </b>instinctively trying to jerk his hand away<b>, </b>but froze under her piercing gaze, a reluctant submission taking hold <b>of </b>him.
Silenced, he didn’t dare to move.
Inside, Donald was frustrated. Mirabe actually intimidated him.
Mirabe released his wrist <b>and </b>said with a hint of amusement, “Anxiety, chest tightness, overall weakness… textbook case of not adjusting to the new environment well. Donald, where are you from?”
Donald quickly tucked his hand back under the covers. He couldn’t say whether he was feeling uneased about the new environment or not, but… “How did you know I was feeling anxious and weak?”
She nced at him, “I know what I need to know.”
Just a pinch, and she’d assessed his condition. Donald’s eyes widened. “You can take a <b>pulse</b>?”
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, especially when ites to throwing punches. Care to test that theory?” Mirabe flexed her fist lightly, her tone breezy.
Donald was speechless. See? That was a clear–cut threat.
She’s such a cute girl, yet so utterly charmless!
When Mirabe saw that Donald mmed up, she let out a soft chuckle and didn’t linger turning to leave.
As she walked away, Donald felt an unexpected twinge of disappointment and called out to her retreating figure, “Hey, you heartless thing, you’re just going to leave me like this?”