Douglas was able to get up, wearing his coat, sitting behind the desk flipping through the mail. His complexion remained pale, his eyes pitch black and deep, making him seem particularly unapproachable.
Margaret walked in with light steps, a mix of surprise and concern evident in her voice as she asked, "Are you feeling better?"
As she spoke, she reached out to test his forehead temperature.
Douglas wanted to dodge, but Margaret had already withdrawn her fingers. The fleeting warmth lingered on his forehead.
She was wearing gloves, delicate white lace, perfectly matching her attire for the day. Yet Douglas still felt uneasy, not because he disliked the touch, but because of a strange sensation.
"Not fully recovered yet, but getting there," he politely explained. "You don't need to make soup today."
