THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 166: More than just a slap...

Chapter 166: More than just a slap...

"You know you’re supposed to receive more than that," Angel’s voice rang out, firm and filled with disappointment as she watched Tryson slowly recover from the force of the slap.

She stood there, unwavering, her eyes never leaving him as he winced, the sting still lingering on his face.

For a moment, he gently ran his fingers over the reddened skin of his cheek, as if the physical pain was nothing compared to the weight of her words. Then, with a quiet resolve, he turned his gaze toward her, his eyes softening with an emotion that he couldn’t quite express.

"I’m sorry, Angel," he muttered, his voice low, almost breaking.

"You’re sorry?" Angel repeated, her disbelief slicing through the air like a sharp knife.

She unfolded her arms, preparing to unleash another round of frustration on him, but the words caught in her throat. Just as she was about to speak, her eyes caught something that made her heart drop in an instant—the unmistakable sight of blood slowly dripping from his hand, staining the floor.

"Tryson, your hand!" she gasped, her voice filled with panic as her gaze shifted between his face and the blood now seeping from his palm.

His eyes flickered down to where she was pointing, the realization dawning on him, but he couldn’t react fast enough.

Before he could say a word, Angel was already by his side. She reached for his hand with a sense of urgency, her fingers trembling slightly as she gently cupped his injured hand in hers, inspecting the wound with a mixture of concern and disbelief.

The injury was worse than she had imagined—deep, raw, and clearly painful. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a split second, she was at a loss for words.

"Tryson, what happened to your hand?" Her voice cracked with a mix of disbelief and hurt, her tone laced with deep disappointment.

She could hardly process how the situation had escalated to this point. In a swift motion, she tugged him toward the couch, urging him to sit down, her worry overtaking her usual calm demeanor.

Tryson complied, his body stiff as he sat, still in a daze from the slap and the blood now pooling in his hand. Angel moved swiftly around the room, her movements quick and purposeful.

Her mind was racing—how had things gotten this far? And what had caused this pain?

Moments later, she returned to his side, the medical kit in hand, her focus entirely on the task at hand, but the look in her eyes was far from neutral. It was a mixture of concern, frustration, and a profound sense of care that he hadn’t expected from her.

Angel gently took Tryson’s hand, her fingers brushing over the warmth of his skin as she adjusted the loose strands of her braids. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if each action was measured with the care she always showed when handling things that mattered.

She opened the medical box with a quiet rustle, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she pulled out the ointment, the scent of it filling the air. Without a word, she began to apply it to his injured hand, her touch surprisingly gentle, as though she feared causing him any further pain.

Tryson sat there, silent, his gaze fixed on her. He watched, mesmerized, as she concentrated on the task in front of her, her focus unwavering.

For the first time, he allowed himself to acknowledge something he’d been trying to suppress—he had always thought of himself as the one who needed to be strong, the one who could endure pain without showing it.

Yet in that moment, he realized that despite his efforts to bear the hurt alone, there was a truth he couldn’t deny: Angel was the only person who could take care of him. No one else could soothe the ache in his heart the way she did.

As he watched her hands move, tenderly and with purpose, something inside him shifted. There was a quiet relief in the way she tended to him, and for a brief moment, he let himself feel vulnerable.

He opened his mouth to speak, his voice a whisper of regret, but his words stumbled over each other.

"You should know that I was also hurt," he started, the weight of his admission pressing heavily on his chest. "And as much as I want to deny it, I know that I’ve hurt you so much..."

His words trailed off, but before he could say more, he felt a sudden shift in the air. Angel had stopped working on his hand, and her posture straightened as she slowly turned her head toward him. Her eyes locked onto his with a piercing intensity, and Tryson felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Angel didn’t speak immediately, but the silence between them was thick with tension. She studied him for a moment, her gaze unwavering, before her lips parted with a single, icy question.

"Do you really want to start explaining the matter now?" Her tone was sharp, cold, and unforgiving, and it cut through the air like a knife.

Tryson could feel his heart beat faster, his throat tightening. It was clear—she wasn’t interested in excuses, and whatever he said next had to be carefully chosen.

Tryson bit down on his lower lip, the action a reflection of the inner turmoil that was gnawing at him.

His mind raced, but amidst the chaotic thoughts, one truth remained clear: no matter how complicated or painful the situation might be, he had to speak. His words might not fix everything, but they were the only thing that could possibly lift the heavy weight pressing down on him.

At least by speaking, he could release the burden he had carried silently for so long. And, perhaps more importantly, he knew he had to face her—after everything, after all the lies and the silence—this moment of confrontation was inevitable.

"Yes, Angel," Tryson began, his voice strained but determined. "Come to think of it, I know you sent the complaint to me and you’re ready to file a case against me, but that was done because of Arthur’s manipulation."

His words hung in the air, an attempt to explain, to justify—anything to make sense of what had happened. But before he could continue, Angel’s eyes locked onto his with a gaze so intense it seemed to pierce right through him.

"No," she interrupted him sharply, her voice steady but cold. "That was from me." Her words were like a slap to the face, and she didn’t look away, her stare unwavering as she waited for his reaction.

The world seemed to stop for a moment as Tryson’s heart sank at the weight of her admission.

He looked down, his gaze instinctively shifting to her hand, and there it was: the empty space where the engagement ring had once rested.

His breath caught in his chest as the realization hit him like a cold wave. The ring was gone.

The silence between them felt unbearable now, suffocating in its weight, as Tryson slowly lowered his gaze, unable to look her in the eyes any longer. The absence of the ring spoke volumes more than words ever could, and he knew, in that instant, that nothing could ever be the same again.

"The ring," Tryson muttered, his voice filled with dissatisfaction, the words slipping from his lips almost as an afterthought.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted her to hear, but the bitterness in his tone betrayed him, and it seemed to cut through the thick silence between them. His eyes briefly flicked to where her hand had been, but the absence of the ring was undeniable.

Angel’s gaze followed his, and for the briefest moment, her fingers tightened, as if she could feel the absence of the ring, too. She looked down at her hand, almost nonchalantly, before raising it up to face him. The emptiness was striking, and with a soft sigh, she spoke, her voice unexpectedly calm.

"Oh, this?" she said, a hint of something sharp in her tone as she gestured to her bare fingers.

"Yes, Tryson. I decided it’s best to remove it, at least for what’s happening right now," Angel continued, her words heavy with sorrow and something else—something more like resignation. She didn’t wait for his response before she added, her voice barely above a whisper, "What is happening right now is all the truth I can handle."

Tryson swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy cloud. "Trust me when I say I tried my best to do what was right," he began, his voice trembling with a mixture of regret and guilt. "But I never thought... I never thought I was going to hurt you like this."

But before he could go on, Angel’s cold, almost bitter laughter cut him off. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that signified amusement—it was hollow, mocking, and filled with pain.

"Tryson," she started, her voice low and slow, as if each word was carefully chosen to wound. "My mother was murdered. You knew so much about me—my identity, my past—yet you chose to ignore what I might feel. You were comfortable with that, weren’t you? You didn’t even stop to think about the consequences of your actions. All that mattered to you was your own game."

She fixed him with a stare so piercing it made his chest tighten. Her disappointment was palpable, and it felt like a weight he could never escape.

Her voice dropped to an even colder tone as she continued, her eyes not leaving his. "Do you know what’s so sad, Tryson? What’s so heartbreaking about your little game? You used me as nothing more than a pawn. And my mother? What did you do to her?"

Her words were sharp, cutting through him like shards of glass, each sentence laced with a bitterness that he couldn’t shake off, no matter how hard he tried.

"Angel, believe me when I say I wasn’t the one who killed her," Tryson pleaded, his voice strained, his words desperate as he reached out to her, trying to make her understand.

His heart raced in his chest, the guilt and fear gnawing at him. He didn’t want to be a part of this, not like this—not with her.

But Angel didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes flashed with fury, and before he could say another word, she snapped. "But then you were a part of it, weren’t you?" she retorted, her voice seething with anger.

In the blink of an eye, Angel’s hand shot out, gripping his collar with an intensity that shocked him. The sudden force of her pull caught him off guard, and Tryson felt himself being yanked forward, his chest colliding with hers as she forced him to look directly into her eyes.

The proximity between them was suffocating, and for a brief moment, he could do nothing but stare back at her, caught in the storm that raged within her.

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