THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 131: Dear Wife...

Chapter 131: Dear Wife...

"Angel," he breathed, relief flooding his system like a tidal wave.

A soft smile graced his lips as he reached for the delicate hand that had wrapped around his wrist.

His fingers tightened slightly, savoring the warmth of her touch, but his gaze wavered when he noticed the subtle frown creasing her brows.

There was confusion in her expression, a flicker of hesitation, as though she couldn’t quite understand the sudden shift in his demeanor.

"Tryson, did something happen?" Angel asked, her voice laced with concern.

Her eyes searched his, but before she could grasp the depth of his turmoil, Tryson reached for her, his palm cupping her cheek with a lingering tenderness.

His lips twitched into a faint smile, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, the air around them grew thick, strange—unnatural.

The atmosphere in the room twisted, pressing in around him, suffocating yet distant.

The walls seemed to waver, their echoes stretching unnaturally, and suddenly, everything felt overwhelming, as though his senses were being pulled in multiple directions at once.

"Tryson?" Angel’s voice called to him again, softer this time, edged with worry.

But as he tried to focus on her, her words fragmented, breaking apart like waves crashing against the edges of his consciousness.

Sounds that should have been clear now felt blurred and distant, as if he were submerged underwater, unable to fully grasp reality.

He clung to her presence, his grip tightening, his lips parting to speak, yet the words felt impossibly heavy. His chest heaved with the effort, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

"I’m sorry, Angel," he finally whispered, the confession tumbling from his lips like a stone dropped into an abyss.

The weight of the moment pressed against him, suffocating and relentless.

He struggled to breathe, each inhalation an uphill battle.

Angel remained in his line of sight, but her image flickered, doubling, distorting—as though she were shifting between two realms, existing in both yet in neither.

The once-familiar room tilted, its walls and ceiling stretching unnaturally, spinning in his mind like an unsteady dream.

"Tryson, are you okay?" Angel’s voice pierced through the haze, but he could barely hold onto it.

His head throbbed, his body swaying as an intense dizziness took hold.

A sharp, involuntary growl rumbled in his throat as he staggered, trying to reclaim his footing, but the effort was in vain.

His limbs felt impossibly heavy, as if unseen chains were dragging him downward. Even as he struggled to maintain his smile, he could feel the darkness creeping in—slow, suffocating, inescapable.

His vision blurred, shadows bleeding into the edges of his sight. No matter how fiercely he fought to stay upright, the darkness surged forward, engulfing him completely.

And then—nothing.

"Tryson! Tryson!"

Angel’s voice echoed through the void, laced with concern and urgency. But Tryson could no longer respond—her voice was the last thing he heard before the darkness fully consumed him.

*

Sophia let out a weak, guttural growl, her hand pressed against her stomach as an unbearable wave of nausea washed over her.

She lay curled up on the couch, every inch of her body feeling unbearably heavy, as though she were drowning under the weight of her own exhaustion.

A feverish burn coursed through her veins, leaving her breath ragged, her body trembling.

The sickness clawing at her insides had started because she had refused to eat the food given to her by the men keeping watch over her.

It had been days now—days of rejecting their offerings, of letting hunger gnaw at her bones until she could barely sit upright without dizziness clouding her vision.

But she didn’t care.

She didn’t want their food. She didn’t want their pity.

She wanted to suffer.

She deserved this agony—deserved to feel every ounce of pain as penance for the choices she had made.

If she had been stronger, if she had been better, none of this would have happened.

So perhaps this was the only way to atone—to let her body wither away, to feel the full weight of the consequences she had brought upon herself.

A broken, breathless chuckle left her lips, but it quickly turned into a pained groan. Her limbs ached. The world around her blurred.

And just as another wave of pain threatened to drag her under, a sharp sound pierced through the haze.

Click.

The door handle turned.

Sophia’s body tensed instantly, her instincts sharpening even through the haze of her fever. She snapped her head toward the door, her heart pounding weakly against her ribs.

Even before she saw him, she could smell him—

That scent.

The crisp, commanding presence of lavender, rich and unmistakably familiar.

It hit her like a force, sending a shiver down her spine.

She didn’t need to see his face to know exactly who was stepping into the room.

"Arthur?"

Sophia’s voice trembled with disbelief.

For a moment, the weight of her misery vanished, replaced by an overwhelming shock that coursed through her entire being.

She sat up abruptly, her weak body fueled by the sheer force of recognition. Her gaze locked onto him, searching his features, as if confirming he was truly standing there.

But the moment of dazed astonishment was fleeting.

"You moron," she spat, her voice laced with anger.

Arthur stepped into the room, his hands buried in his pockets, his expression unreadable—cool, indifferent, as if her presence meant nothing. That only fueled the fury rising within her.

Sophia’s eyes burned with rage.

Without hesitation, she pushed herself off the couch, her body screaming in protest, but she ignored the pain.

She closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, her hand lifting midair, prepared to strike him across the face.

But she never got the chance.

Arthur’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist with alarming force.

Sophia gasped, her breath hitching as an icy chill shot down her spine. His hold was unyielding—strong, controlled, deliberate.

The moment she felt it, her anger wavered, giving way to something far more dangerous.

Fear.

She turned her head sharply, looking away as her body tensed, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Hey, woman," Arthur drawled, his voice smooth yet edged with something unsettling.

He tightened his grip ever so slightly, his free hand rising as if prepared to strike.

Sophia squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.

But the slap never came.

Instead, Arthur smirked.

With a sudden, effortless motion, he hooked his arm around her waist and yanked her forward, pulling her flush against him.

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat.

Her body jerked at the unexpected closeness, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest, but she didn’t push him away.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she struggled to compose herself, her gaze stubbornly avoiding his.

Yet, she could feel it—his eyes on her.

Watching. Amused.

And for the first time, her rage faltered, leaving only the cold grip of fear in its wake.

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