THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 152: After math of the situation...

Chapter 152: After math of the situation...

Tryson let out a low, guttural growl the moment the doctor withdrew the syringe from his arm, his muscles tensing at the lingering sting.

He had refused to go to the hospital the previous night, unwilling to endure the sterile walls and probing eyes, so he had demanded the doctor make a house call instead.

Moore had accompanied the doctor, ensuring that Tryson cooperated as a syringe of his blood was drawn for testing.

The sharp prick of the needle sent a brief jolt of pain through his skin, prompting another quiet growl to escape his lips.

He barely flinched, though, as Moore pressed a cotton swab to the fresh puncture before smoothly inserting the syringe where it was needed.

"You made the right call by having the doctor come here," Moore remarked, his voice calm yet laced with curiosity. His sharp gaze swept around the dimly lit room, as if searching for something—or someone. "But instead of the hotel, you chose to stay home. That’s unusual. I hope there’s nothing wrong? And... I don’t see Angel anywhere."

Tryson inhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "She had a lot to deal with," he replied, his tone even but uncertain.

The truth was sitting heavily on his tongue, and he wasn’t sure how to reveal it to Moore just yet.

Moore’s expression darkened slightly, his eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion.

"But whatever she’s going through... it’s nothing too serious, right?" His voice was steady, but Tryson could hear the underlying concern.

It wasn’t just a casual question—it was a warning, a subtle but firm way of cautioning him about Angel’s well-being.

At that moment, Tryson couldn’t help but pray that whatever Arthur was scheming with Angel wouldn’t push him to drastic measures—measures that could cost her the child.

The mere thought sent a cold shiver down his spine, a wave of unease settling deep within his chest.

As his mind spiraled, another memory surfaced—the conversation he had with Alex.

The moment it replayed in his head, an unsettling anger ignited within him, fresh and raw, spreading like wildfire through his veins. His jaw clenched involuntarily.

No matter what, he hoped—no, he needed—his father to be wrong this time. Just once. He needed him to make a misstep, to miscalculate, to unknowingly let Angel slip from his grasp and away from trouble.

Tryson exhaled sharply, forcing a tight smile as he stared blankly into the air, his hand instinctively pressing against the spot where the cotton covered his punctured skin. The room felt heavier, suffocating almost, yet he spoke without really thinking, his voice distant.

"I just hope she gets well," he murmured, still not looking at Moore.

But Moore wasn’t fooled. He had been around Tryson long enough to sense when something was off. The shift in the air, the way Tryson avoided his gaze—it was all telling.

"Tryson," Moore said softly, his tone gentle but firm. "Is there something you’re not telling me?"

Tryson hesitated.

There was no point in hiding it now. Moore wasn’t just any man—he had been deeply embedded in the mafia world, one of their most trusted men in the medical field.

If anyone had the means to know at least fragments of the ongoing chaos, it was him. And given the recent circumstances, he had probably caught wind of something—just not enough to put the full picture together.

"Actually—" Tryson started, but before he could finish, a sudden knock at the door cut through the tension like a blade.

Both men snapped their heads toward the sound, instincts immediately sharpening. The interruption was unexpected, and in their world, an unannounced visitor was rarely a good sign.

A deep frown settled on Tryson’s face as he turned toward the door, his voice calm yet edged with impatience. "Open it," he ordered.

The door creaked open, revealing Moses standing just beyond the threshold. He stepped inside with his head slightly lowered, a quiet display of deference as he spoke.

"Sir, a delivery has arrived for you," Moses said evenly.

Tryson’s frown deepened as he watched Moses approach.

In the man’s outstretched hand was a plain brown envelope—simple yet suspicious.

Tryson took it, his fingers running over the crisp paper as curiosity stirred in his chest. He hadn’t requested any delivery, nor was he expecting one.

As he weighed the envelope in his hand, a flicker of wariness crossed his mind. Before he could tear it open, Moore gathered his things. Without a word, he exited the room, leaving Tryson alone to uncover whatever was inside.

The moment his eyes landed on the bold heading—"File Complaint"—his grip on the paper tightened. A strange unease settled in his stomach, but it was nothing compared to the jolt of shock that followed.

Angel’s name.

There, printed in stark black ink, was Angel’s name, unmistakably tied to the reason this file had been sent to him.

Tryson’s breath hitched for a second, his mind racing. What the hell was going on?

"Angel?" Tryson breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with disbelief as his eyes remained locked on the file in his trembling hands.

His mind raced, his grip tightening around the edges of the document. This couldn’t be real. Angel would never do this. She wouldn’t.

A cold wave of suspicion crawled up his spine. Could Arthur be behind this? Was this another one of his twisted manipulations?

Tryson barely had time to process the thought when his phone vibrated. Still reeling from shock, he lowered his gaze and swiped at the notification, his heart pounding against his ribs. But what he saw next nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

There—clear as day—was an image of Angel. Signing that very document.

His pulse spiked, fury boiling through his veins like wildfire. His jaw clenched as his fingers instinctively darted toward his phone, quickly scrolling to Arthur’s number. Without hesitation, he pressed the call button, his breaths coming out in ragged bursts.

Ring.

Nothing.

Ring.

Still nothing.

The call went dead. Unavailable.

Tryson’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. His anger was no longer simmering—it was erupting.

What the hell was Arthur playing at? And why—why—had Angel signed that document?

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