His innocent wife is a dangerous hacker.-Chapter 611 Stressed

"What’s wrong with you, Leo?" Bella’s voice trembled, her wrists still trapped in his too-tight grip. "You’re scaring me."

He chuckled. It was not a nice sound. Hollow. Mocking. Nothing like the low, warm laugh she loved.

"Oh right!" His voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. "Now I’m scaring you? But the unknown man who sent you a gift and a rose—he didn’t scare you?"

Bella’s eyes widened. Her heart stopped.

"How do you know—"

"Così non avevi intenzione di dirmelo?" (So you weren’t planning to tell me?) Leo cut her off, his voice rising, slipping into Italian as his anger mounted. He released her wrists abruptly, stepping back. The space between them felt like a canyon. "I get it—back then I was busy. Fine. But you had plenty of time after that! Days, Bella! E non mi hai detto niente!" (And you told me nothing!)

His hands sliced through the air as he spoke, sharp, agitated movements. His whole body radiated anger, heat rolling off him in waves, muscles coiled tight, chest heaving.

"This could have helped! Every detail matters! Ma tu l’hai nascosto!" (But you hid it!) He spun away from her, dragging both hands through his hair. A stream of Italian poured from his lips; she didn’t understand, but she caught the fury in every syllable. "Porca miseria! Non ci posso credere!" (Bloody hell! I can’t believe this!)

Then his fist connected with the wall. The sound was sickening. A crack, whether of plaster or bone, she couldn’t tell.

Bella flinched hard but not because of the sound. Her eyes flew to his hand.

"Leo!" All the fear in her voice shifted, no longer afraid of him, but for him. She moved before she thought, crossing the distance between them, reaching for his injured hand.

He yanked it back, turning away from her. "Non toccarmi." (Don’t touch me.)

But Bella wasn’t listening to his words. She was looking at his knuckles, already swelling, split open, blood dripping onto the floor.

"Your hand," she breathed. "Leo, your hand—"

"It doesn’t matter." His voice was rough, broken at the edges.

"It does matter!" She grabbed his wrist, holding on even when he tried to pull away. This time, she didn’t let go. "Oh my goodness! Look at your hand—look what you did to yourself! It’s bleeding, Leo. You’re hurt."

Her voice cracked as she turned his hand over gently, examining the damage. Blood welled from his split knuckles, smearing across his skin and dripping onto the floor between them.

He stopped fighting her grip.

His chest was still heaving. His eyes were still wild. But something in her voice, that desperate, genuine concern, seemed to reach through the red fog of his anger.

He looked down.

At her small hands wrapped around his wrist. At his own knuckles, torn and bleeding. At the blood smeared on her fingers now.

"Stupid," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "You stupid, stubborn man. You’re hurting yourself. How could you be so careless? Punching a wall? Seriously?"

Leo stared at her.

The anger didn’t go away. It couldn’t, not that easily. But something else joined it. Confusion. Wonder. The same feeling he got every time she did something he didn’t see coming.

"Bella..."

"Don’t ’Bella’ me." She was already tugging him toward the bathroom, toward the first aid kit she knew was there. "Sit down. Now."

He let her pull him. Let her push him onto the closed toilet lid. Let her kneel in front of him with antiseptic and bandages, her tears still falling as she cleaned the blood from his skin.

His knuckles were a mess, split open, swelling, angry red against the pale of his skin. She worked carefully, gently, dabbing at the wounds with cotton, her fingers trembling against his hand.

Leo watched her for a moment.

The way her brow furrowed in concentration. The way her tears kept falling, silent and steady, despite her efforts to blink them away. The way she bit her lower lip, holding back words she didn’t know how to say.

His heart clenched but he didn’t speak. He looked away.

He couldn’t look at her. Not now. Not when every part of him wanted to scream, to demand answers, to shake her and ask why she hadn’t told him. If he started talking, all of it would come out, the frustration, the stress, the anger.

And she didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve his rage.

So he said nothing.

When she finished, wrapping the last bandage around his knuckles with careful precision, he stood abruptly. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Bella looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and questioning.

"Leo..."

He didn’t answer.

He walked past her into the bedroom, moving with a stiffness that had nothing to do with his body. She followed, watching as he grabbed a pillow from the bed.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was small.

"Sleeping." The word was flat.

He walked to the couch and laid down, his back to her, the pillow tucked under his head.

"But... why?" She stood near the bed, arms wrapping around herself. "I know you’re angry. I know I messed up. But—"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t give any sign he’d heard her at all.

His eyes were closed, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders stayed rigid even lying down. He looked angry. So angry. The kind of angry that had nowhere to go but inward.

Bella bit her lip, hard.

She wanted to go to him. To kneel beside the couch and beg him to talk to her, to yell at her, to do something other than this cold silence.

But she knew him.

When Leo shut down like this, pushing only made it worse.

So she stood there for a long moment, watching the man she loved pretend to sleep on a couch because he couldn’t bear to share a bed with her tonight.

Then she turned, climbed into bed alone, and pulled Moonbeam close.

When she finally heard the shift in his breathing, the deep, slow rhythm of sleep, Bella let out a quiet sigh.

She waited a few more minutes, listening, making sure he was truly under.

Then she slipped out of bed.

Her bare feet made no sound against the floor as she crossed the room. The couch where he lay was too small for him. His feet hung over one armrest, his body twisted at an awkward angle. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes. Still in the dark shirt and trousers from his meeting, the fabric wrinkled now, the collar loose.

Even in sleep, he looked stressed.