The Wife You Buried Is Back from Hell novel Chapter 736

Danielle glanced at Alexander, taking a slow, steady breath.

She set the file in her hand aside before speaking. “You should listen to your doctor,” she said.

Get some proper rest.

Alexander turned his head at her words. His gaze was dark, deep as ink, impossible to read.

He stared at her for a few seconds, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. “Are you worried about me?”

Danielle’s brows drew together, just barely. “At the moment, I just don’t want you dropping dead any time soon.”

After all, there were still plenty of things she didn’t know—things only he could explain.

Alexander’s eyes stayed dark, his tone unbothered. “I’m not dying, Danielle. It’s just work. I’ll survive.”

Her eyes dropped to his right hand, the one that seemed perpetually injured.

“But your hand could get worse,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact, as if stating something inevitable. “If it gets infected, you’ll end up in the hospital, and that’ll waste even more time.”

Alexander didn’t argue. He just kept looking at her, silent and steady.

Just then, light footsteps padded down the stairs. Niki appeared at the doorway. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

Her voice was small and soft, still heavy with sleep.

Danielle turned, saw her daughter, and went over to gently ruffle her hair. “Alright.”

She headed for the kitchen.

Niki immediately hurried after her.

After a pause, Alexander stood and went downstairs as well.

Once there, he said nothing, did nothing—just sat quietly on the sofa.

Alexander accepted the bowl in silence, following her to the table.

The wooden dining table was small—close enough that all three of them could sense each other’s presence.

He picked up his spoon, about to taste the soup, when a soft thud sounded from across the table. Niki’s spoon slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor and splashing a little soup onto the tablecloth.

She shrank in her seat, eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry…”

Danielle was about to get up, but Alexander beat her to it. He bent down, picked up the spoon, and tossed it into the trash.

Without saying a word, he pulled several napkins from the box and started cleaning the spilled soup.

His movements were slow, awkward—his injured right hand made it hard to grip and press. He had to wipe the table several times before the stain disappeared.

Niki watched him, taking in his lowered gaze, and finally whispered, “Does your hand hurt?”

Alexander’s hand paused mid-wipe. When he looked up at her, some of the darkness in his eyes had faded. He met his daughter’s gaze, and his voice softened. “It doesn’t hurt.”