Angel sat in silence at the dining table of her home, her fingers absentmindedly resting on the edge of her untouched plate.
The aroma of the meal did little to stir her appetite; her mind was far too crowded with thoughts—thoughts that looped endlessly around Tryson and Arthur.
The tangled mess of it all pressed against her chest like a weight she couldn't lift.
She never imagined herself becoming so caged, yet here she was—trapped in the illusion of safety inside her own house.
It wasn't just the suffocating feeling of being monitored by Arthur's ever-watchful security cameras that gnawed at her—it was the knowledge that, no matter where she went, she was never truly alone.
His men lingered in the shadows outside, always watching, always waiting. The thought of stepping outside only made her feel more vulnerable, more exposed, than staying under his calculated surveillance.
