Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most Chapter 72: Male Lead Staring At Me...?

I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. The suit is perfect. Sharp lines, dark fabric that drinks the light. I run my fingers through my silver hair one last ti, settling it into sothing that looks deliberately effortless. Today is important.

More than important. It’s the day.

A soft smile touches my lips as I look at my reflection. Today, Angel is going to et his male lead.

The thought sends a giddy, almost childlike thrill through . After all the plotting, the scheming, the awkward confrontation with Moon Arden... today, the pieces finally click into place.

My sweet Angel will stand in the sa room as the man written in the stars for him. I’ll get to see it happen with my own eyes.

Then, like a cold splash of water, last night’s mory flashes back.

The moonlit library. His face leaning in. The breath of space between our lips. The shattered look in his eyes when I pulled away.

My smile fades in the mirror.

Was he really trying to kiss ?

It doesn’t make any sense. The Angel I know, the one from the story, saw Zyren as the child he raised. A ward. A responsibility.

Not... that.

It must have been a trick of the moonlight, a mont of overwheld gratitude or shared vulnerability. I must have misread it.

I’m just an overthinker. A hopeless romantic transplanting my own ssy feelings onto his pure, simple soul.

I shake my head sharply, as if to dislodge the thought.

"No, Neon. You’re just an overthinker."

I give my reflection a final, firm nod, shrug into my coat, and step out of my room. The excitent bubbles back up, pushing the doubt aside. A soft, eager smile is back on my lips as I head for the stairs.

I’m practically grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. My steps are light, almost bouncing on the polished marble.

And then I see him.

Angel is already waiting in the grand foyer, standing perfectly still. He’s dressed for the shoot, looking ethereal and fragile. My smile widens.

"Good morning!"

He doesn’t look up. "Good morning," he murmurs, the words so soft they’re almost absorbed by the vast space. His face is turned down, studying the flawless marble floor as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

I stare at him for a mont. The usual gentle light in his eyes is gone, replaced by a downcast tension. "Angel," I say, my voice softening with concern.

"Are you okay?"

He flicks a glance at —a quick, fleeting thing—then looks back down.

"I’m fine."

The answer is short. Clipped. The warmth from last night is completely gone, erased as if it never existed.

The charming, soft happiness that had glowed in the library has vanished, leaving behind this polite, distant shell.

I rebuild my smile, wider this ti.

"Then let’s go."

He nods, a stiff, chanical motion, and starts walking toward the door without waiting for , his steps asured and silent.

I watch his retreating back for a second, then take a deep, steadying breath.

Neon, you overthinker.

It’s just nerves. Of course it is. He’s about to walk into a room full of strangers and lights.

It’s nothing else.

I repeat it to myself as I follow him out to the waiting car, the excited grin inside feeling a little more fragile, a little more forced, as I try to ignore the cold, quiet space he’s just put between us.

I sit in the eting room, the air thick with a barely-contained, giddy tension. Angel is a quiet statue beside , his eyes fixed on the gleaming tabletop, face a portrait of polite blankness.

The "Best Feeling" project team is practically vibrating—flushed cheeks, quick, excited glances at the door. They’re trying so hard to be calm and professional, but their awe is a visible hum in the room.

Of course. Their perfect super star is coming.

But my attention isn’t on them. It’s not even fully on Angel’s strange, withdrawn silence beside .

It’s on a different, colder silence. The one I left in a bakery last night.

I lean back in my chair, a dull sadness wrapping around . I’d hoped, foolishly, that Deniz might have returned to the office today. But he’s still on leave.

The space where he should be feels like a physical hollow in the room.

Maybe I should just go see him. Tonight. Visit his father at the hospital, bridge this awful, silent gap. The thought is a lifeline. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Clear the air.

Before the plan can fully form, the eting room door swings open—without a knock.

I flinch, my thoughts scattering.

Moon Arden walks in. It’s an entrance, not an arrival. He moves with the unshakeable confidence of soone who expects every door to open for him. His secretary trails behind, a silent accessory.

Every eye in the room snaps to him. The staff’s eyes widen, exactly as I’d expect.

Rude. Didn’t even bother to knock.

Manager Mike is on his feet in an instant.

"Mr. Moon! Good afternoon. Please, have a seat." His smile is so polite it looks painful.

Moon Arden takes the seat directly across from , his posture pure, unaffected pride. I stare back. His sky-blue eyes lock onto mine with an unsettling directness.

So confident after being late. Such a spoiled brat.

His secretary bows slightly in my direction.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Kael. My sincerest apologies for our tardiness. Thank you for your patience."

I give a curt, barely perceptible nod. The secretary sits. All eyes remain glued to Moon Arden, the sun in their professional solar system.

I force my own gaze away from him and glance at Angel.

He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still downcast, fixed on the sa spot on the table. He hasn’t even looked up.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of curiosity toward the dazzling male lead he’s supposedly destined for.

And Moon Arden... his attention isn’t on Angel either. His stare is fixed on . It’s a weird, penetrating look I can’t decipher—not the teasing challenge from the garden tent, but sothing sharper, more analytical.

Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle only he can see.

What is going on?

Irritation sparks, cutting through my earlier sadness. I straighten in my chair, the shift subtle but imdiate.

The CEO mask slides into place—cold, sharp, all business.

I let out a single, sharp, deliberate cough.

The entire room flinches. The star-struck gazes snap away from Moon Arden. Papers are straightened, postures corrected, eyes fixed firmly on files and presentations.

Professional order is restored.

But inside, my mind churns with new, unsettling questions, completely derailing my plan for the evening.

Why isn’t Angel looking at him?

And why the hell is the male lead staring at ?