THE BILLIONAIRE STILL WANTS HER!
Chapter 83: He is the father...

Chapter 83: He is the father...

"I said," she declared, her words slow and deliberate, "Tryson is the father of my child. Not you. He has every right to claim that—you don’t."

She enunciated every word deliberately, just in case Arthur hadn’t fully grasped the weight of what she was saying.

Arthur inhaled sharply, the words sinking deep into his chest like jagged shards of glass. It felt as though she had just ripped something out of him—something fragile, something he wasn’t prepared to lose.

His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white, as his heart pounded against his ribs.

"You’re lying... aren’t you?" he asked, his voice laced with both disbelief and desperate hope.

He fought to keep his composure, but the walls of the car felt suffocating, boxing him in, trapping the rage and pain swirling inside him.

If he weren’t confined to his seat, he might have exploded right then and there—yelling, demanding, pleading. But instead, he sat there, his patience hanging by a thread.

"Arthur," Angel continued, her tone softer now, but no less firm, "you asked me a few days ago how I knew Tryson, how he came into my life. If you really want to know, then hear me now—Tryson has always been the father of my child. Before you, there was him. Before I ever met you, he was already a part of my story."

She paused, her breath hitching, emotions threatening to surface. "He was the one who left me broken, the one who pushed me into that darkest place... the very place where you found me."

Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating. And in that moment, the world outside faded—leaving only the weight of her confession hanging between them like an impending storm.

Not because she had run out of words—no, far from it.

Angel could have said so much more, could have laid out every single reason, every painful truth. But she chose silence instead.

She wanted to hear Arthur’s reaction, to feel the weight of his emotions through the phone. She expected anger, maybe even an outburst.

What she hadn’t expected was the low, dark chuckle that slithered through the line, chilling her to the bone.

"Really?" Arthur finally spoke, his voice dangerously calm, laced with something sharp—mockery, maybe even menace. "You actually expect me to believe the words you’re saying, Angel?"

His tone was cold, biting, like ice creeping into her veins.

Angel remained silent, not because she had nothing to say, but because, for once, she thought silence might make him understand more than words ever could.

Arthur didn’t let up. "Angel, do you honestly think I’ll just accept this? That I’ll listen to you now, after everything, and just take your word for it?"

"I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I don’t expect you to accept it, but—"

"But what?" Arthur cut in, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "You told Tryson that I’m the father of your child, and now you’re standing there telling me that Tryson is the father? So, come on, my dearest, tell me—how exactly am I supposed to believe you?"

Angel’s breath caught in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, but the words—the very words she had been so sure of—vanished before they could leave her lips.

Because suddenly, a realization crashed over her like a wave of ice-cold water.

The only person she had ever told that Arthur was the father of her child was—

Sophia.

Her blood ran cold.

"What did you just say? How do you know that?" Angel’s voice wavered with disbelief, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his next words dripping with disdain.

"You know what, Angel? If I wanted to call you a million things right now, I really would. But I won’t. Because I know exactly what’s blinding you—the attention Tryson’s giving you."

"Arthur, you already know the truth," she urged, trying to steady her breath. "Drop the games. Restate your facts."

A low chuckle came from the other end of the call, but it lacked humor—it was hollow, menacing.

"I wish I could, Angel. But what’s the point? The past is the past. Right now, everyone already believes Tryson is responsible. And honestly?" He paused, his voice turning even colder. "I just want to see what Tryson will do."

Angel felt a lump form in her throat. "Arthur—"

"You should listen carefully," he interrupted, his tone deadly calm. "If you don’t want this to get messy, start acting like someone who knows her place. You don’t want to get hurt... do you?"

The line went dead before she could utter another word.

Angel shivered, gripping the phone tightly, her mind reeling from the chilling threat laced in his voice.

How could Arthur speak to her that way? So cold, so detached... so dangerous.

And then, another thought struck her like lightning.

Could it be... Sophia?

Had she told Arthur what Angel had confessed to Tryson?

But then, how?

Angel racked her brain, trying to recall any moment when Sophia and Arthur had even spoken. She was sure—absolutely sure—that Sophia had never had a conversation with him.

So how the hell did he know?

The realization clawed at her, leaving an uneasy weight settling deep in her chest. Something wasn’t right.

And she needed to find out what.

Could it be that Sophia was betraying her behind her back?

Angel’s thoughts spiraled, unease clawing at her chest. The more she tried to make sense of it, the more the pieces refused to fit.

Meanwhile, the moment Arthur ended the call, rage surged through him like wildfire.

Without thinking, he slammed his fist against the car window—once, twice—each hit sharper, harder, fueled by the storm raging inside him. The dull sting in his knuckles barely registered; pain was the last thing on his mind.

The driver flinched at the sudden outburst, his hands momentarily tightening around the wheel.

But he knew better than to react too strongly. Instead, he swallowed, forcing himself to remain composed before speaking in a careful, measured tone.

"Sir... is everything alright?" he asked, though he already had his doubts.

Arthur snapped his head toward him, his gaze sharp and unforgiving, like a predator assessing its prey.

"I hope we’re almost there," he said, his voice low but laced with unmistakable fury.

The driver nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. We’re already on the way."

Arthur clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding as he turned back toward the window. His reflection stared back at him—dark eyes burning with quiet vengeance.

There was no way in hell he was going to let Tryson have the last laugh.

Not now.

Not ever.