Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 142: Let’s Sit Down And Talk

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and the only thought circling my mind is: What have I done?

The room is dim—just the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the ornate plasterwork above .

I’ve stared at this ceiling a hundred tis, but tonight it feels different. Foreign. Accusing.

Neon, you absolute idiot.

I push myself up on my elbows, then sit fully, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. My body is heavy with exhaustion, every muscle aching, every bone begging for rest. But my mind won’t stop.

Won’t quiet. Won’t let forget.

Moon’s face. His smile. His hand reaching for mine.

You agreed to sothing you don’t even understand.

I press my palms to my eyes, rubbing hard, as if I can scrub the mory away. When I open them again, the room is the sa. The shadows are the sa. I’m still here, still trapped in this ss I made.

What does he an, "I’ll ask for what you already have"?

I run through the list in my mind, thodical, desperate. Business. Money. The Kael empire. Properties. Investnts. Leverage.

But that’s ridiculous. He’s Moon Arden—the richest model in the country, maybe the continent.

He doesn’t need my money. He doesn’t need anything I own.

I press my fingers to my temples, rubbing slow circles against the ache blooming there. The pressure helps, just a little.

A ridiculous thought. A ridiculous deal. A ridiculous night.

A sad smile touches my lips, thin and bitter. I’m exhausted. My body screams for sleep, for rest, for oblivion. But my eyes won’t close. Every ti I try, Moon’s voice echoes in my head, low and certain.

"What you already have."

I throw off the covers and stand.

The floor is cold against my bare feet—a small shock that travels up through my body, grounding , reminding I’m still here.

Still real. Still breathing.

The balcony door slides open easily. I step out into the night.

The air hits imdiately—cool and clean against my skin, carrying the first hints of changing seasons. The snow is gone now, lted into mory, leaving behind the crisp, still quiet of late winter.

Above , the sky is scattered with stars, countless and indifferent, burning in their distant silence. Below, the mansion gardens stretch out in darkness, sleeping, waiting for spring.

I lean forward on the railing. The tal is cold beneath my forearms, biting through the thin fabric of my sleeves, but I barely feel it. My eyes drift across the darkness, seeing nothing, seeing everything.

Why did I agree?

The question circles endlessly, a vulture over dying thoughts.

I was so blinded by anger, I walked straight into his trap.

I scold myself in the silence, my lips moving without sound.

You’re dood, Neon. Completely, utterly dood.

The wind moves through my silver hair, lifting the strands, cooling the heat behind my eyes. For a mont, just a mont, the chaos quiets.

And then, slowly, a soft smile spreads across my lips.

Wait.

The video.

The one I recorded to blackmail him into staying in the country. That’s what he wants. It has to be. He wants to delete it—to erase the only leverage I have over him, the only thing that keeps him here.

I shake my head, the smile brightening, warming.

Oh, Neon. You’re worrying over nothing. That’s it. That’s all it is.

Relief trickles through , small but real, like the first drop of water after days in the desert.

Then—

KNOCK... KNOCK...

I turn sharply, my smile vanishing. The sound cuts through the night like a blade, through my thoughts, through the fragile peace I’d just begun to find.

Who now?

My steps are slow as I walk back inside, crossing the room toward the door. The knocking cos again—knock, knock—insistent but not urgent, patient but persistent.

I stop in front of the door. My hand hovers over the handle.

"Who is it?"

A soft voice answers from the other side.

"Zyren..."

My face changes. The tension in my shoulders loosens. The wariness in my chest eases.

Angel.

I unlock the door quickly and pull it open.

He stands there in the hallway, dressed in soft night pajamas, his golden hair ssy and falling across his temple in careless waves.

The dim light from the corridor catches the gold in his lashes, makes him look younger than he is.

Vulnerable. Fragile.

"Angel." My voice softens, drops, becos sothing gentle.

"What are you doing here?"

He rubs the back of his neck—a nervous habit I’ve seen a hundred tis. His eyes dart to , then away, then back.

"Did I disturb your sleep?"

I shake my head. "No. I couldn’t sleep anyway." I step back, opening the door wider.

"Co in."

He hesitates for just a mont, then steps inside. I close the door behind him—soft click, soft sound, soft presence filling the room.

He stands there, just inside the doorway, looking down at his feet. His fingers fidget with the hem of his sleeve, twisting the fabric.

"I asked a maid," he says quietly. "She told you were in your room. So I ca to et you because..."

He stops.

I wait.

The silence stretches, fills the space between us. He doesn’t continue.

I step closer. Close enough to see the slight tremble in his lashes, the way his breath cos a little uneven.

I lift my hand slowly, giving him ti to pull away, and place my fingers gently under his chin.

I lift.

His eyes et mine. Golden. Wet. Just slightly, just at the edges—tears he’s been holding back.

"Angel." My voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

"Why did you stop?"

He hesitates. I can see him gathering words, sorting through them, trying to find the right ones.

His lips part, close, part again.

Finally, quietly, "Because you barely co back to the mansion anymore." A pause. His voice drops even lower.

"And we barely spend... ti together."

The words land softly, but they hurt.

I stay silent for a mont, letting them sink in. Letting myself feel them.

He’s right.

I’ve been gone. At Deniz’s. At work. Everywhere but here, with him. The one person in this world who’s never asked for anything, who’s only ever given.

"Angel." I cup his face gently, my palms warm against his cool skin.

"I’m sorry."

"Did I make you sad?"

He shakes his head quickly—too quickly.

"No. You didn’t. I understand. You’re busy with work and other things. I know you have responsibilities. I don’t want to be a burden."

I stare at him—this beautiful, selfless person I call family.

I smile softly. Warmly. Genuinely.

"Let’s sit down and talk."

I take his hand, leading him toward the upholstered sitting area by the tall arched windows.

"It’s been a while since we just... talked."

He follows, letting guide him, and a small smile finally touches his lips. It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s real.

We sit beside each other in the soft lamplight, and for the first ti tonight, the weight in my chest eases.

Just a little. Just enough to breathe.