I sit on the couch while Angel walks over and sets the first-aid kit on the table. His expression hasn’t eased at all—worry still shadows his eyes. He dips the cotton into antiseptic, his movents slow, careful, almost reverent.
The mont the cotton touches my skin, I flinch.
"Young master... just bear with it a little," he says softly.
I look at him.
It feels strangely comforting—this simple act of care, this quiet concern focused entirely on . He applies the ointnt gently, his touch so light it barely grazes my skin. Oddly enough, in this mont, the punch almost feels worth it. At least now, soone is treating like I matter.
I smile faintly. "Thank you so much, Angel."
His eyes remain fixed on my lips. "Young master, please don’t move your mouth."
I nod obediently.
He closes the first-aid kit, fingers tightening around it. His gaze stays lowered. After a pause, he speaks again, hesitating.
"Young master..."
I look at him. "Hmm?"
His grip tightens, knuckles paling. Then, quietly, "Did Master Zyke... hit you?"
I don’t answer right away. I simply look at him—then nod. "Yes."
His eyes lift slowly, searching my face. "Why... did he hit you?"
The question hits harder than the punch.
Is he doubting ?
Does he think I did sothing wrong?
Realization strikes, sharp and sudden.
"I didn’t do anything bad," I say quickly, the words spilling out. "I swear. I didn’t do anything wrong."
He looks at silently, then says gently, "Young master... I didn’t accuse you of anything."
I pause.
Sothing about his gaze feels different today. Not fear. Not obedience. Sothing deeper—sothing unsettled.
He peels a wound patch and carefully presses it to my cheek. His eyes et mine without hesitation now. No fear. No distance. Just sothing I can’t quite na.
He straightens slightly. "Young master..."
I’m still watching him, so I interrupt softly, "What are you thinking?"
He blinks, confused. "What do you an, young master?"
I stand up. He instinctively steps back, but I take a step forward instead, stubborn, searching.
"I’m asking what you’re thinking about . Right now."
His gaze drops instantly. "I’m sorry, young master. I didn’t—"
"Why are you apologizing?" I ask, gentler now. "I just want to know."
He hesitates. Then, finally—
"Seeing you like this..." His fingers clench around the kit. "It reminded of the past. When you were little."
I freeze.
"One day, you were running after a cat," he continues quietly. "You fell and scratched your face—right here." His eyes flick to my cheek. "You cried so hard... and clung to , refusing to let go."
I stare at him.
My body goes cold.
He isn’t doubting .
He isn’t judging .
He’s rembering.
The past—when Zyren was still a child. When Angel cared for him with the sa gentleness, the sa quiet devotion.
I take a step back, my chest tightening.
"I’m... happy," I say softly.
He looks up, surprised.
"I’m lucky," I continue, smiling faintly, "that you’ve always been beside . Like real family." My voice steadies. "Thank you, Angel."
His eyes soften, sothing warm flickering through them.
"I need to go," I add lightly. "I’m late for the office."
He nods. "Yes, young master."
I smile once more—then turn and walk away, leaving the room quieter than before, my heart heavier... and warr all at once.
I sit in my office wearing a face mask, leaning back against the chair. My head tilts slightly as I close my eyes.
God... I’m starving.
Badly.
Because of this injured lip, I skipped breakfast.
I skipped my pancakes.
My pancakes.
I want to cry—dramatically.
A rich man starving in his own office. What a tragedy.
Just as my suffering reaches its peak, there’s a knock on the door.
"Co in."
Deniz enters. His steps are neat, obedient, perfectly asured—like soone trained never to make mistakes. He walks up to the desk, places a file in front of , and speaks professionally.
"Sir, this is the latest report on the perfu project."
I nod.
His eyes flick toward my face—brief, instinctive—then drop again.
"...Sir, are you alright?"
Of course he asks.
Again.
This stupid mask is making everyone suspicious.
In novels, boss wear masks in the office to hide kiss marks.
? I’m hiding a punch.
Wow. I’m extraordinarily lucky.
"Yeah," I say casually. "I’m fine."
He nods.
"Sit."
"Yes, sir."
He sits across from , posture straight, hands resting properly on his lap.
"Deniz," I say, "what’s my schedule today?"
"You have two etings, sir. One with—"
"Cancel it."
He pauses for half a second, then nods imdiately. "Yes, sir."
He glances at his tablet again. "Next week, you’re scheduled to attend the Arden family’s dinner party."
Arden.
The na feels familiar.
Deniz looks up at , hesitation flickering across his face. Then he asks softly, "Sir... should we go to the hospital?"
I blink. "What?"
"You don’t look well," he says honestly.
Before I can respond—
Grrrlll.
My stomach betrays . Loud. Shaless. Echoing.
I imdiately place a hand over my abdon like that will undo the humiliation.
Deniz freezes. Then looks at .
"...Sir," he asks carefully, "what should I order for you?"
"No need," I reply quickly. "I’m fine."
He frowns slightly. "But sir... aren’t you hungry?"
I look down.
How do I tell him that I can barely move my mouth?
That chewing feels like torture?
That talking itself hurts?
Deniz waits patiently, eyes filled with concern.
I sigh.
Fine.
I reach up and slowly remove the mask.
The mont his gaze lands on my face—the red bruise on my cheek, the split, swollen lip—his eyes widen in shock.
"Sir..." his voice drops.
Yeah.
That reaction says everything.
Deniz’s eyes widen. Of course—they’ve never seen the "ruthless villain" Zyren Kael actually hurt.
"That’s why..." I murmur, voice small, almost whining like a child. "I can’t eat. Even breakfast... I skipped my pancakes. It hurts."
Deniz flinches slightly at my words. His expression softens. Without a word, he quickly stands up.
"Please... wait, sir!" he says, urgency in his tone, and rushes out of the room, moving with careful haste as if he’s racing against ti itself.
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