THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 111: Tears on the face...

Chapter 111: Tears on the face...

"Mother," Angel breathed, her voice barely above a whisper as she shut her eyes, willing herself to hold onto the memory of how she had felt before everything shattered.

The moment she stepped out of the hospital, her phone rang, and the news on the other end splintered her soul into a million irreparable pieces.

The words barely registered, but the weight of them crushed her.

Without thinking, she turned and ran—her feet pounding against the cold tile floors, her heart hammering in her chest as she pushed through the sterile halls, desperate to reach the ward. But by the time she arrived, it was too late.

She stopped abruptly at the doorway, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the doctors pull a white sheet over her mother’s lifeless body.

Her knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, numb, weak, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

How? How could this have happened?

Only moments ago, she had clung to hope, convinced that her mother would recover.

She had seen it in her mother’s eyes—the silent reassurance, the determination to keep fighting.

Angel had dared to believe that after everything, after the accident and the grueling treatments, her mother would make it through. But now, here she was, staring at the cold, unfeeling reality.

A doctor approached her, his expression heavy with practiced sympathy, and delivered the final blow.

A natural death, he said. As if those words could ever make sense of the agony tearing through her.

The weight of grief slammed into her, and before she realized it, she was back in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink, her knuckles white as silent sobs wracked her body.

Hot tears spilled freely down her cheeks, mixing with the steady stream of water flowing from the faucet.

She tried to breathe, tried to steady herself, but the pain was suffocating, relentless.

She had thought she was strong, that she had healed from this loss, that time had dulled the ache. But standing there, drowning in the memories, she realized it had all been a façade.

She wasn’t healed. She wasn’t strong.

She was broken.

And the worst part? She knew the person responsible for her suffering still walked free. Someday, she would have to face him.

But today, all she could do was grieve.

"Hmm, are you okay?"

A deep, gentle voice broke through Angel’s thoughts, making her stiffen. That was when she realized—she had stepped into the wrong restroom.

A man’s restroom.

Her breath hitched as she wiped the tears from her face, embarrassment creeping in.

"I’m so sorry," Angel murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she sniffled and reached for the faucet, hastily turning off the running water.

But the moment she lifted her head and caught sight of the reflection in the mirror, her entire body froze.

Those eyes.

Familiar. Intense. Unmistakable.

"Arthur?" The name left her lips in a breathless whisper as she spun around to face him.

There he stood—without his mask.

How was this possible? Was he also a guest of Alex? Had fate truly thrown them together like this?

"Arthur?" she repeated, unable to process the situation fast enough.

But before she could utter another word, Arthur closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands gripping her face as his lips crashed onto hers.

Angel’s eyes widened in pure shock, her mind spiraling as she felt him devour her lips with a deep, unrelenting hunger. He kissed her like he had been starving for this moment, like he had waited far too long.

Her body went rigid, her hands pressing against his chest in a weak attempt to push him away, but the sensation of him—his warmth, his touch—left her momentarily dazed.

No.

No, this wasn’t right.

With a sudden surge of willpower, she shoved him away, her breath ragged as she stumbled back.

"Arthur, stop. This is not right," she gasped, shaking her head as if trying to clear the whirlwind of emotions crashing over her.

Arthur stood there, his brows furrowing, confusion flickering in his darkened gaze.

"I should stop?" he asked, disbelief lacing his voice.

Angel bit her lip, swallowing the lump in her throat as her chest tightened with emotions she could no longer contain.

She sniffled, but it was useless—her tears had already betrayed her.

Arthur took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his heat suffocating.

His fingers reached for her face, barely grazing her cheek, tracing the damp path left by her sorrow. His touch was both tender and possessive, as if he had every right to claim her pain, to take it as his own.

His jaw tightened, and in an instant, his entire demeanor shifted. His expression darkened, the soft concern in his eyes replaced by something colder, something dangerous.

"He made you cry, didn’t he?" Arthur’s voice dropped to a low, icy whisper—controlled, but simmering with barely restrained fury.

Angel flinched.

His voice alone sent a shudder through her, but the anger in his eyes—the unyielding way he looked at her—made her chest clench even tighter.

Quickly, she reached up and slapped his hand away, her breath uneven. "I said we shouldn’t be doing this," she whispered, though her own voice betrayed her conviction.

Arthur didn’t move.

He didn’t back down.

His gaze hardened, as if the very idea of letting this go was unfathomable to him.

Just as she turned to leave, a strong hand shot out, gripping her wrist with firm resolve. A startled gasp escaped her lips, but before she could react, he spun her around—her back colliding against the cold, unyielding wall. The air hitched in her throat, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

Arthur was there. Inches from her. His body caging her in.

His breath was warm against her skin, his presence impossible to ignore. He stared at her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, something raw and unrelenting burning behind his dark gaze.

"I told you he wasn’t going to make you happy," Arthur murmured, his voice a deep, frustrated growl. "I told you he didn’t deserve you."

His hands came up, bracing against the wall on either side of her, making it impossible to escape—not just physically, but emotionally.

His scrutiny was relentless, as if searching for something in her expression, something she wasn’t ready to admit.

Angel averted her eyes, turning her head away, but it didn’t matter.

"Arthur, you don’t understand—" she started, her voice unsteady.

His scoff cut through her sentence like a blade. "I understand more than you think."

She finally turned her gaze back to him, only to find a knowing smirk playing at the corner of his lips—a smirk laced with something dangerous, something that made her stomach twist.

"And what?" he continued, his voice dropping lower, thick with emotion. "That’s the best defense you can give him? Even with the tears still fresh on your face?"

His words cut deeper than she wanted to admit.