THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 100: Back to the original...

Chapter 100: Back to the original...

With practiced elegance, Tryson adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, each movement precise, deliberate.

Confidence radiated from him as he strode through the opulent hotel corridors, his polished shoes striking the marble floor with a rhythmic certainty.

As he neared the grand lobby, his sharp gaze flickered toward the elevator doors just as they slid open.

Angel and Samson stepped out.

Tryson halted, his instincts taking over.

In one fluid motion, he veered subtly to the side, ensuring they wouldn’t catch sight of him.

Yet, despite his effort to remain unseen, his piercing eyes remained locked on them, tracking their every move like a predator observing its prey.

They moved toward the exit, Angel chatting lightly as Samson walked beside her, his posture controlled, his demeanor unreadable.

Tryson’s fingers slipped into his pocket, retrieving his phone with practiced ease.

He raised it just enough, his camera perfectly angled to capture Samson’s face in his line of sight. A flick of his thumb, and the image was secured.

Meanwhile, just steps ahead, Samson and Angel neared the hotel entrance.

The sleek, tinted car awaited them just beyond the glass doors, but before Samson could guide Angel forward, the shrill ring of his phone shattered the moment.

His pulse spiked.

If Angel realized the call was meant for him and not Tryson, she’d know the truth.

She’d know that he wasn’t who he claimed to be.

"What is it?" Angel turned to him, curiosity flashing in her warm eyes, her head tilting slightly in concern.

For a fraction of a second, Samson froze.

Then, forcing a chuckle, he masked the hesitation with a small, easy smile. He cleared his throat, making sure his voice mirrored Tryson’s flawlessly before responding.

"Oh, just a call," he said, feigning nonchalance as he subtly shifted his phone in his palm. "Nothing important. Go ahead—get in the car. I’ll be right behind you."

Angel studied him for a lingering moment, searching his face as if trying to read something between the lines. But then, with a small nod, she turned and continued outside.

The second she was out of sight, Samson exhaled, his grip tightening around the phone. Relief flooded his system as he finally lifted it to his ear.

"Big bro," he muttered, his voice slipping back into its natural tone.

A low chuckle hummed through the speaker.

"You can drop the act," Tryson’s voice was smooth, unwavering. "I’m right here."

Samson’s head snapped up, his gaze sweeping the area until—there.

His eyes locked onto Tryson, standing just feet away in the shadows of the towering lobby pillars.

Unexpectedly, a sigh of relief escaped Samson’s lips.

Without hesitation, he moved toward his brother, reaching up to peel off the mask as he walked.

The moment he reached Tryson, he didn’t bother with words—he simply slammed the mask against his brother’s chest, meeting his gaze with an intensity that said more than any insult could.

"I did what you asked," Samson said, his tone even but laced with exhaustion. "Now do me a favor and take care of your woman. She scared the hell out of me, and I don’t think I’ll ever recover from this." He let out a short breath before continuing, "And listen, bro—this is the last time. I mean it. Never again am I pretending to be you. I don’t care what the situation is."

Tryson smirked, amusement flickering in his hazel eyes as he studied his younger brother.

Despite Tryson being Alexander’s son, the contrast between them was undeniable.

Tryson had inherited most of his mother’s refined features—sharp cheekbones, aristocratic poise, and a cold, calculating gaze that never revealed more than he intended.

Samson, on the other hand, also bore a striking resemblance to his own mother—softer edges, an expressive face that betrayed his emotions more often than he liked.

But the biggest difference?

Their eyes.

Tryson’s gaze burned with hazel intensity, while Samson’s were deep, jet black—two shades of the same bloodline, yet worlds apart.

Tryson raised a hand, gripping the mask Samson had slammed against his chest.

He remained perfectly composed, not a flicker of irritation crossing his face.

Instead, he smirked, his other hand reaching out to give Samson a firm pat on the shoulder.

"You can say whatever you want," Tryson said smoothly, tilting his head slightly. "But if I ever need you again, you know you won’t be able to escape me."

Samson let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

"Hah! Real funny, big bro," he scoffed. "But I mean it—this was the last time. If you ever need someone to play you again, hire an actor. You’ve both done too much to me already. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same after this." He clicked his tongue in frustration.

Tryson smirked again, unaffected. "Well then, you should leave now before Angel starts getting suspicious."

With that, he turned and walked away, his pace steady and unwavering.

Samson exhaled and started to leave, but after taking a few steps, he hesitated. Turning back, he watched his brother’s retreating figure.

A small crease formed between his brows.

I just hope you’re not making the wrong decision, Tryson. Samson mused inwardly.

Meanwhile, Tryson adjusted his suit as he approached his waiting car.

The driver swiftly opened the backseat door, and the moment Tryson stepped inside, his breath hitched—his thoughts interrupted by something entirely unexpected.

The second he settled in, his lips were abruptly captured in a fierce kiss.

Angel’s hands gripped him firmly, ensuring he didn’t pull away—not that he had much of a choice.

Her kiss was demanding, heated, and unwavering, making it clear that whether he wanted it or not, he was hers to claim in that moment.

For a moment, Tryson was entirely captivated by Angel’s boldness.

His hand slid up, ready to deepen the kiss, to explore the softness of her lips further. But just as he leaned in, Angel abruptly pulled away, leaving him suspended in the charged air between them.

"Of course it’s you," she remarked, her voice carrying a sly edge.

Tryson’s brows knitted together, a frown tugging at his expression. His mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning behind her words.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice low, curiosity and caution mingling in his tone.

Angel didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned back against the seat, a knowing smirk playing on her lips as if she’d just uncovered a secret.