"Tryson is the father of this child."
Angel’s words echoed relentlessly in Arthur’s mind, gnawing at his sanity like a relentless beast.
His grip tightened, his breath hitched, and in a sudden surge of fury, his clenched fist slamd once more against the car’s interior, sending a dull thud reverberating through the vehicle.
The driver flinched.
Though he had only been working for Arthur for a month, he had grown accustod to his employer’s composed and almost charismatic deanor.
Their conversations had always been engaging, filled with casual exchanges and the occasional witty remark.
But this—this seething rage that now radiated from Arthur was sothing he had never expected to witness, let alone be trapped in a car with.
Swallowing his hesitation, the driver dared to break the tense silence, his voice cautious yet laced with concern. "Uhm... sir, is sothing bothering you? Perhaps—"
He didn’t even get the chance to finish. Arthur’s voice sliced through the air like a whip, sharp and laced with venom.
"Would you just do the job I asked you to do?"
The sudden outburst sent an icy shiver down the young man’s spine.
He quickly shut his mouth, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he focused on the road ahead, silently praying that the rest of the drive would pass without another outburst.
He knew that whatever had happened this ti, it had clearly crossed all limits—enough to ignite the storm brewing inside Arthur.
Yet, despite the turmoil in the air, the driver reminded himself that his priority at this mont was simply to get them to their destination, no matter the tension thickening the atmosphere.
anwhile, Arthur, his fist still tightly clenched, leaned slightly against the window, his gaze piercing through the dark tint.
His mind was a whirlwind, replaying Angel’s words over and over again like a cruel mantra.
Tryson is the father of this child.
Each syllable felt like a fresh wound, cutting deep, leaving him raw and desperate. The re thought of losing—again—twisted sothing inside him, a sharp, sour ache in his gut.
No. Not this ti.
One thought rang clear and unshaken in his mind: he wasn’t going to lose. Not now. Not ever. He had to get Angel back, no matter what it took.
Finally, the car pulled into the imposing driveway of a grand company building.
As soon as the vehicle ca to a stop, Arthur stepped out with a sense of purpose, his strides swift and unwavering.
Employees turned, offering respectful greetings, but he barely acknowledged them.
His fury propelled him forward, his only destination being the executive office, where he intended to make his next move.
The guards, already aware of his arrival, moved swiftly toward him, falling into step as they guided Arthur through the grand halls of the building.
Their presence was unnecessary—Arthur knew exactly where he was going—but they still trailed behind, their disciplined steps echoing against the polished floors.
Once inside the elevator, Arthur was finally alone.
The confined space did little to settle the fire raging within him. His jaw tightened, his fingers curled into a fist, and the mont the elevator chid open, his steps carried him forward with unwavering determination.
As he entered the executive wing, the receptionist at the front desk imdiately straightened in her seat. The sight of him alone was enough to send a ripple of tension through the air.
Without hesitation, she reached for the phone, barely sparing him a glance as she spoke in hushed urgency. Monts later, she lifted her gaze and nodded.
"He said you could co in, Sir."
Arthur didn’t acknowledge her words—he simply moved. His strides were purposeful, every step radiating an aura of barely contained fury.
The mont he stepped into the office, his cold, piercing eyes swept across the room.
His hand dipped into his pocket, and in a single fluid motion, he pulled out a gun, raising it with lethal precision.
His target, the man seated behind the grand mahogany desk, remained unfazed.
He didn’t even turn to face Arthur; instead, he leisurely rotated his chair toward the floor-to-ceiling window, his gaze fixed on the view beyond.
A low, amused voice broke the tense silence.
"I don’t think that’s an acceptable welco," the man mused, his tone calm—too calm, considering the loaded weapon aid at him.
He didn’t need to turn around to know that Arthur’s finger was already resting on the trigger, poised to end the conversation before it even began.
"You know I could kill you right here and now, and no one would care if I did," Arthur growled, his voice low, edged with venom.
His grip on the gun tightened, his finger dangerously close to pulling the trigger.
But instead of fear, a chuckle broke the tense air—smooth, deliberate, laced with amusent.
Arthur’s jaw clenched as the man finally turned his chair, facing him at last.
Their eyes locked—Arthur’s filled with barely restrained fury, while the man remained maddeningly composed, seated with an air of unshaken confidence.
"Tell why I shouldn’t pull the trigger, Alexander Johnson?" Arthur demanded, his voice thick with rage.
A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Alex’s lips.
He exuded an unsettling calm, as if he had expected this—welcod it, even. Arthur could sense it now.
Whatever storm had brought him into this office, whatever fury fueled his actions—it all led back to this man.
"Do I really need to spell it out for you?" Alex’s voice was smooth, taunting, his gaze unwavering. He leaned back ever so slightly, exuding an aura of danger, not from the threat of violence—but from the sheer confidence that Arthur wouldn’t do it. "You already know why you won’t kill ."
Arthur exhaled sharply, his patience threadbare. His anger simred into sothing lethal. His lips curled into a smirk of his own as he lifted the gun, locking his aim with deadly precision.
And then—without hesitation—he pulled the trigger.
A sharp click. No sound.
But the bullet had left its chamber.
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