Resurrecting the Genius Within

Behitrecting the genius Witton 

Chapter 451 Present 

Yeah, I’d rather feed the dogs. 

He always works to get what he wants. 

George’s gaze locked with hers, a gentle conviction in his deep voice as he uttered, “Even sans the cake, dreams find their way.” He paused, sincerity coloring his words. “This year, my birthday wish still echoes for your well–being.” 

Isabelle’s serene eyes flitted with understanding. 

His sincerity mirrored in his eyes as he spoke softly, “Remember last year? You gave me your wish last year, and I’ll add that to this one; both entwined with the thread of your safety.” 

Isabelle’s lips parted slightly, curiosity gleaming, “What was your original intention 

then?” 

George confessed, his gaze momentarily averted, “Originally, it was selfish, but now, your safety encompasses my greatest selfish desire.” 

“Not the answer to my question,” Isabelle said. 

With a slight dip of his gaze, George confessed, “To wish for your affection.” 

In Liam’s castle, that was his initial thought, yet her gift of wish was too precious, untouched by his reluctance, a testament to his resolve to earn it himself. 

Isabelle remained composed, “And?” 

In retrospect, it felt superfluous, thus remained dormant, untouched. 

There was a moment of silence before George spoke with solemnity, “To ask for your hand in marriage.” 

In the vicinity of Isabelle’s abode, beneath the canopy of stars, she halted him, sealing the moment with a kiss. In that fleeting embrace, hope blossomed, intertwining with the desire for a promising future together, the fervent wish to make her his wife soaring within him.. 

Now, his fervent wish was simply for her safety. 

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Desperation colored his longing for a shared future. 

But in the face of danger, nothing else was more important than her safety, even his wish of taking her hand in marriage. 

George dismissed superstition, steadfast in his belief that destiny was a creation of man, impervious to the whims of ghosts or deities. Yet, when it came to Isabelle, the narrative shifted. 

His wish extended beyond mere safety; it encompassed his tranquility. 

Isabelle lay ensconced in the comfort of their shared space, the rhythm of George’s shower serving as a backdrop to her reverie. Her gaze wandered upward, lost in contemplation. 

Upon George’s return from his ablutions, he found her lying there, eyes shut in peaceful repose. His movements were gentle as he draped the blanket over her form, his gaze lingering on the serenity etched upon her slumbering visage. 

Pausing mid–action, George found himself captivated by her presence, an inexplicable desire stirring within him. 

Though the impulse to kiss her was strong, he hesitated, wary of disrupting her rest or unsettling her peace. 

His mind drifted to the aftermath of his candid confession; would it weigh upon her, burdening her with unwanted thoughts? 

Recollections of their improvised performance for the fake Joshua earlier, the absence of a script, lingered in his mind. 

Her declaration of disinterest in marriage, the dismissal of relationships as mere distractions–were they borne of the moment’s heat, or did they reflect deeper sentiments? 

Aware of the futility of dwelling on matters of the heart at this hour, George quelled his burgeoning apprehensions, unwilling to burden himself with 

unnecessary concerns. 

Recognizing her unfamiliarity with matters of love, he resolved to spare her the tumult of his emotions. With a determined exhale, he relinquished the weight of overthinking. 

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Chaput Vit Prasha 

Returning the towel to its place, he retraced his steps to the bed. 

In the dim light, he gently lifted the covers, slipping beneath them with a quiet resolve. 

Before George could even begin to drift into slumber, Isabelle’s voice pierced the silence, her words laced with a hint of playfulness, “Mr. Harris, your bed–entry skills are improving by the day.” 

She hadn’t succumbed to sleep’s embrace. 

Meeting her gaze, George observed her closed eyes. Did she catch him stealing a glance? 

Far from awkward, he found her charade endearing, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Relief washed over him, knowing he hadn’t intruded upon her feigned slumber. 

With practiced case, George countered, “I’d gladly trade the bed for the couch, but alas, it’s too snug for my liking.” 

Their dynamic hadn’t matured to that extent; if she expressed discomfort, he’d readily comply. 

Isabelle’s silence lingered. Text content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Thus, George remained nestled in the sheets. 

“Feeling chilly?” he ventured. 

Isabelle’s response was direct, her words cutting through the air, “Why not just ask to cuddle?” 

His thoughts laid bare, George posed the question, “May I hold you tonight?” 

After a pregnant pause, Isabelle turned away, her back to him.. 

Observing her posture, George cautioned, “Mind your injury.” 

Isabelle’s tone remained neutral, her directive clear, “Just rest and quiet down.” 

And so, in the hushed stillness, they awaited Isabelle’s convalescence. What should have been a period of recuperation felt akin to a journey with Isabelle leading the 

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maury notwithstarting 

Nevertheless, George embraced the role of faithfed follower 

In a world where danger no longer loomed and vigilance wasn’t a constant, George might have likened their current state to a honeymoon 

Naturally, he refrained from mentioning such musings to Isabelle: the notion served merely as a private amusement during fleeting moments of reprieve 

Merely two days prior, they had set foot in the bustling city. Now, Isabelle guided George toward a sprawling music concert, both eager to immerse themselves in the auditory spectacle. 

Isabelle appeared serene, her anticipation palpable, devoid of the expected apprehension. Conversely, George found himself gripped by a rising tide of unease, a stark contrast to her calm demeanor. 

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