Margaret Tucker AKA Lord Reaper novel Chapter 120

Chapter 120 Rejected Cake

Finished

“Ahem… Andrew, I was deep in thought. Nothing more,” Walter said, half his courage drained. He averted his gaze hastily, not daring to glance again.

Andrew spoke again, his voice cold and flat. “Bring it here.”

Walter hurried over, returning with an exquisitely packaged cake in his hands.

He handed it to Andrew. “Here, Andrew.”

Andrew took the cake and passed it to Margaret. “Maggie, this is for you. Cake.”

When she had been drunk earlier, she had mentioned wanting Cake. So he’d ordered a custom one from Ramirez Restaurant’s pastry chefs.

She’ll love it, right? She’ll totally gush over me. Maybe—just maybe—she’ll even give me a kiss as a little reward?

Random thoughts flickered through Andrew’s mind. The man who was always calm and composed felt an unfamiliar stir of anticipation.

Margaret took the box, her brows furrowing into a cold line. “What is this?”

Andrew’s lips curved slightly. “A cake prepared exclusively for you.”

She’s gonna lose it when she wakes up and finds this cake right there.

But Margaret did not even bother to unfasten the box. She tossed it onto the table, her movements sharp with disgust.

Her striking face was etched with haughtiness. “Andrew, I dislike sweet things. They are for little girls.”

She was the Lord of Hall of Reaper, the King of Assassins. Such trivialities were beneath her. Dessert meant nothing to her. Blood was what she craved.

Her disgust was plain, written clearly across her cold features.

Andrew, seated in his wheelchair, felt his triumphant expression freeze solid. The light in his eyes dimmed.

“Andrew, did you order this cake?” Margaret asked, her tone laced with confusion. “I thought you would know what I like and what I disdain.”

Andrew was rendered speechless. Her words struck him like a blow. Is she turned off by me?

Walter watched from the side, a faint, involuntary amusement stirring within him. To see Andrew lost for words was a first. It was almost surreal.

He dared not show it, though. He merely stood, his head bowed.

After a long, tense silence, Andrew turned to Walter. His expression remained unchanged, his voice cold as ice. “Walter, I told you she would not like this. You have no taste.”

Walter’s jaw tightened. He looked up, wanting to defend himself. “Andrew, that is not—”

Chapter 120 Rejected Cake

It has been Andrew’s onder. Not mine. How has it become my mistake?

Andrew’s eyes turned cuttingly sharp, a murderous vibe seeping into the space around them. He lifted one eyebrow, his voice cold and dangerous. “Do you dispute me? Am I wronging you?”

That look. Walter knew death would follow if he spoke out of turn.

He shook his head violently. “No, Andrew. It is all my fault. I assumed Ms. Tucker liked desserts, so I went ahead and picked up the cake.”

Satisfied, Andrew turned back to Margaret. His expression softened into one of innocence. “Maggie, you heard him. It has nothing to do with me. This is Walter’s fault.”

Margaret did not doubt him. She nodded, her gaze calm. “I believe you, Andrew. You are not so shallow.”

My Andrew’s this icy, regal guy-he’d never stoop to something as silly as a cake. C’mon, he’s not some naive kid.

Walter fell silent. He felt the subtle jab, the implication hanging in the air.

Annoyance burned within him, but he dared not speak. He was the one left to bear the blame, as always.

“Maggie, I have a gift for you. You will surely like it,” Andrew said. A bloodthirsty sneer curled at the corner of his lips, as if he had.thought of something pleasing.

Curiosity stirred within her. She leaned slightly forward, her interest piqued. “Andrew, what gift?”

My Andrew’s taste is way better than Walter’s basic garbage.

“Come with me,” Andrew said, his voice low with mystery.

Margaret’s curiosity grew.

Walter followed silently behind, equally curious. What kind of gift will Andrew give? Diamonds? Jewelry? Designer clothes? Luxury cars? Mansions?

But when they approached a gloomy basement within Mohler Manor, he realized his guesses were wrong. A chill ran down his spine.

This basement was a place of death. Countless souls had perished here.

Walter was confused. A gift? Why bring her to such a place?

It’s pitch-black in here, and there’s this faint coppery stench hanging everywhere. Any regular, timid girl would be scared stiff right now.

He glanced at Margaret instinctively.

That cold, arrogant girl showed no fear. Instead, a faint glint of excitement and curiosity shone in her eyes.

Walter understood then. She and Andrew have the exact same twisted tastes.

The basement was brightly lit, its marble floors spotlessly clean, free of any stains. But a strong smell of alcohol lingered in the air. Walking through it still sent a tingling sensation down one’s scalp, a primal fear

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