In the garage.
Staring at the black Bentley that was arrogantly blocking her car, Holly Sinclair's already bad mood plummeted.
Tristan Sterling stood by the car, his gaze deep as he watched her.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Sterling?"
Holly Sinclair walked forward, her expression impassive, her question cold and distant.
"Are you hurt?" He looked her up and down, and only after confirming she hadn't been splashed by the boiling water did his stern expression soften considerably.
"What?" She thought she must have misheard.
'Is he showing "concern" for the wrong person?'
'His precious white moonlight is the one who's hurt. Instead of staying by her side to comfort and care for her, he's running over here to put on this fake act? Is he doing this just to piss me off?!'
"It won't happen again."
He suddenly blurted out another cryptic sentence.
