Alex sat with an almost unnerving composure, his gaze locked onto Arthur.]
The gunshot hadn’t echoed through the room, sharp and final, yet the bullet had missed its mark—veering off through the window behind him instead.
The crisp sound of shattered glass still lingered in the air as Alex slowly turned his head, his eyes tracing the neat, jagged hole the bullet had carved into the pane.
But instead of frustration or shock, a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. With an exhale that carried more amusent than fear, he shifted his gaze back to Arthur, his voice as smooth as ever.
"It seems your plan has failed... terribly," Alex murmured, his tone edged with mockery.
Arthur’s face darkened with fury, and in an instant, he stord forward, closing the distance between them with heavy, deliberate strides.
The mont he reached the desk, his hands slamd against the surface, the force reverberating through the room.
Yet, Alex remained unfazed. If anything, his expression only grew more unreadable.
With a deliberate slowness, he brought his curled fingers to his chin, resting his head against them as he studied Arthur with piercing, almost lazy interest.
The air between them crackled with tension, but Alex, as always, held the upper hand.
Arthur’s gaze bore down on Alex, his expression unreadable yet charged with sothing dangerous. His voice was low but firm, carrying the weight of certainty.
"You know my plans never fail," Arthur stated, his tone simring with restrained fury.
Yet, Alex only sat there, unshaken, a smirk playing on his lips as if Arthur’s words amused him.
The air between them was thick with tension, but Alex remained composed, exuding an unsettling confidence.
Then, in a smooth, deliberate motion, Alex rose from his seat, closing the space between them with slow, asured strides.
"Two years ago," he began, his voice eerily calm, "you did everything in your power to bury your secrets. You killed a woman—or should I say, your secretary—all to ensure your business dealings remained hidden."
Arthur stiffened.
Alex didn’t stop.
He reached for Arthur’s wrist, gripping it with an almost casual authority, and in one swift motion, he pulled up the sleeve of his jacket.
The dim lighting cast shadows over his skin, but there, inked in stark contrast, was the sinister serpent tattoo—an unmistakable mark of guilt.
Arthur’s breath hitched.
Alex’s smirk deepened as mories flashed through his mind.
He rembered it all—how Arthur had snuck into the hospital that morning, how he had finished what his first attempt failed to do.
The secretary had escaped once, but Arthur had ensured she wouldn’t live to expose him.
And now, as the weight of the truth pressed down on him, Arthur felt a flicker of sothing he hadn’t in years.
Fear.
His mind raced. He knew what had to be done—before the entire truth ca spilling out.
"Arthur," Alex said smoothly, lifting his head to et Arthur’s gaze.
His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath the surface. Leaning in slightly, he continued in a low, simring tone.
"Your childishness is going to land you in serious trouble one day. And just because you’re my wife’s nephew doesn’t an I won’t put you in your place when you start acting like a petulant child."
Arthur’s jaw clenched, his irritation flaring at Alex’s condescending tone.
With a sharp yank, he tore his wrist free from Alex’s grip, the heat of his own fury coursing through him.
"Really?!" he spat, his voice rising with anger. "Is it that bastard son of yours who’s thrown everything into chaos?"
The words had barely left his mouth before he realized—too late—that the weight in his hand was gone.
His fingers twitched instinctively, but the cold, tallic object had already been ripped from his grasp.
And then—click.
Arthur froze.
The muzzle of the gun was now aid directly at his head, held firmly in Alex’s steady grip.
Alex’s expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and unwavering as he spoke, his voice a dangerous whisper.
"You know... I could fix that reckless mouth of yours if you keep running it."
For a fleeting mont, Arthur held his ground, a smirk curling at his lips. He believed Alex was bluffing, testing him, pushing his limits.
But then—
Bang.
The sound cracked through the air, and before Arthur could react, a sharp, searing pain lanced through his stomach.
His body tensed, breath hitching as his mind scrambled to process what had just happened.
Yet, as he staggered slightly, his eyes flickered downward—and realization struck.
The bullet hadn’t pierced him.
It lay harmlessly on the floor, a re inch away from his shoes.
Alex slowly lowered the gun, his smirk returning. "Next ti," he murmured, "I won’t miss."
But then at the sa ti once again, Arthur lowered his gaze, his breath hitching slightly as he spotted the crimson stain blooming against his once-pristine white shirt.
The wound wasn’t deep, but the sharp sting and the slow trickle of blood were enough to remind him—Alex hadn’t been bluffing.
"You know," Alex’s voice cut through the silence, his tone as smooth as ever but laced with irritation, "I warned you before. I don’t have the patience for your pointless theatrics."
With slow, deliberate steps, Alex closed the distance between them, his presence looming over Arthur, who now clutched at his wound.
"You or Tryson—one of you had a simple task. Bring Angel. But instead, you thought it wise to create a spectacle on the internet?"
His gaze was ice-cold, piercing through Arthur like a blade.
Arthur said nothing, his fingers pressing into the throbbing pain in his stomach, but Alex wasn’t done.
"Ever since you were a child, I’ve been the one shielding you from lawsuits, scandals, and every reckless ss you’ve created. And yet—" Alex exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You never learn. You really had to upload those pictures of Angel? Do you even realize the consequences of your stupidity?"
Arthur, unable to ignore the weight of Alex’s words, dropped onto the chair across from him, wincing slightly as he adjusted his posture.
His hand remained firmly over his wound, the dull ache grounding him in the reality of his mistake.
Then, his jaw tightened. His frustration boiled over.
"What else was I supposed to do?" he snapped. "You expect to sit back and do nothing while Tryson is the father of the child Angel is carrying?"
The room tensed.
Arthur expected anger, maybe another bullet, but what he got instead made his blood run cold.
Alex’s frown faded, replaced by sothing far more unsettling—a slow, knowing smirk.
And then, in a voice laced with dangerous amusent, he murmured:
"Tryson... is the father of the child?"
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