Holly Sinclair froze.
In her daze, Tristan Sterling had already opened the door.
And stepped inside.
Holly Sinclair was exhausted today.
First, she'd beaten up Vivian Linton and Zack, then she'd worked nonstop to restore the qipao, so busy she hadn't even eaten.
She really didn't have the extra energy to scream hysterically for him to get out.
Tristan Sterling tossed the keys onto the coffee table, plopped down onto the sofa, and made himself at home as if he owned the place.
"What are you doing here?"
Holly Sinclair stepped forward, asking as she stared coldly at the man.
Her voice was hoarse, listless, and utterly devoid of life.
"Come here," he commanded.
She didn't move.
Tristan Sterling stood up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her down onto the sofa.
He unwrapped the gauze from her hand.
The wound, which had been healing, had split open again in places.
It must have happened when she hit Vivian Linton and Zack today.
