Breaking Mr. Cold (Giselle and Donovan) novel Chapter 744

Over the next few days, Giselle's condition stabilized completely. She wanted to go back to the company to work, but Donovan flatly refused.

"The doctor already said I'm fine now. Some exercise in moderation is good for the baby. The baby is not as fragile as it was before. Just sitting in the office should be fine, right?"

She couldn't stand the smell of disinfectant in the hospital. Even if she didn't go to the company, she still wanted to move around normally every day.

"Not yet," Donovan said firmly. "You can stay at home. I'll walk with you around the house every day. That's enough."

"I can't possibly stay indoors for the entire pregnancy, can I?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"Later? How long?"

Donovan paused, his expression somber. "Another half month or so."

"You're out of your mind." Giselle felt Donovan was even more sensitive than she was now. She didn't want to argue further, and her thoughts shifted to another issue.

"Where's Chris?"

She pressed again, "Didn't I tell you to call him back? You still haven't forgiven his 'mistake' last time?"

"He went back to Malithorn."

"What?" Giselle thought she'd misheard. "What's he doing there?"

"He's actually Malithornian and not of Valantian descent. He lied at the start."

"Oh," Giselle muttered to herself. "No wonder he speaks Mali so fluently. His eyes also look particularly like people from over there. But whatever—he probably lied to find a job in Valanthea and gain our trust, right?"

"Okay."

It wasn't lost on Giselle that ever since that second near-death ordeal, Donovan had become overprotective. He catered to her every whim, practically spoiling her.

He no longer hit back, talked back, gave her the cold shoulder, or even put on a sour face. Even if she wanted the stars in the sky, he'd be willing to pluck them for her.

He'd taken over every trivial matter in her life and solved all her worries. Letting her go to work was basically just to give her something to do to pass the time.

Men of his caliber generally married the typical perfect woman—poised in public, deft in the kitchen, someone who could uphold a wealthy family's image.

But she—aside from acting like a wife in bed—bore no resemblance in any other respect.

She didn't have to wash his clothes or cook for him. She didn't need to be gentle and considerate, and certainly didn't need to dress to the nines to accompany him to social events.