Tryson and some thoughts

Angel couldn't help but gasp after the conversation she had just shared with Sophia. Surprisingly, the atmosphere of the room felt cooler than she had imagined it would.

Lost in her thoughts, she stood up from the bed, feeling a sense of curiosity stir within her. She walked towards the floor-to-ceiling window that stood just beside the bathroom, a reminder of how detached she had become from her own comfort.

A deep sigh escaped her lips as she observed the heavy curtains draped over the window, shielding the room from the harsh rays of light.

Gently, she gripped the edge of the curtain and pulled it back, allowing her gaze to drift outwards.

The city stretched endlessly before her, a maze of illuminated towers piercing the night sky. The lights, reflecting off the glass and steel, seemed to hum with the rhythm of the city, an almost hypnotic comfort that calmed her nerves.

Her arms folded across her chest as she inhaled deeply, drawing in the cool air around her. Her mind, however, was far from calm.

It raced with the weight of the conversation, with Sophia's words echoing in her mind.

Was it truly the right thing to do? Was leaving everything behind, as if none of it had ever happened, the solution?

She sighed again, her lips pressing together in quiet frustration. The thought of leaving Tryson's house, of walking away from everything she had tangled herself in, wasn't as simple as it seemed.

How could she protect herself from the looming contract lawsuit if she left?

And then there was Arthur. She did love him, she knew that much, but the pull she felt for Tryson—there was something undeniable about it.

Tryson had changed her in ways she couldn't fully understand. He had shaped her into the woman she had become, the woman who no longer felt the sting of being judged, of being labeled a cheat or a gold-digger.

She had carved out her own place in the world, and for that, she was proud.

But there was also Arthur—his help had given her the confidence to stand tall, to not fear the criticism she had once dreaded. Her heart twisted, torn between these two men who had each played such an influential role in her life.

As she stared at the city, the silent midnight view stretching before her, the weight of everything seemed to lift slightly. The distant hum of the city's nightlife was oddly soothing, and for a moment, she allowed herself to be consumed by the stillness.

The baby inside her—her constant reminder of the future—made her tired, both physically and emotionally. Morning sickness had been a constant battle, a reminder that her body was no longer entirely her own. It was a lot to handle, more than she ever expected.

The silence in the room enveloped her, and she pressed a button, pulling the curtains closed once more. She needed to block out the world for a little while, to retreat into herself.

With a quiet exhale, she stepped away from the window, her soft nightgown swishing as she moved.

She walked down the hallway, her footsteps echoing slightly in the emptiness of the house. It was odd how much she had come to associate this place with so many emotions—both of love and betrayal, of comfort and conflict.

As she moved through the hallways, her mind wandered back to the times when she had been at the house alone, when Tryson had been away on business.

She would often find herself alone, entertaining his family, making sure their needs were met, ensuring that they felt comfortable in his absence. In those quiet moments, she'd find herself longing for something more—something deeper, but Tryson had always been distant, buried in work.

She continued walking, lost in her thoughts, until she found herself standing outside the door to Tryson's studio.

This was his sanctuary, his escape from the world of business. Beneath the powerful exterior of the tycoon, Tryson was an artist, someone who found peace in the strokes of a brush and the beauty of a painted canvas.

Angel stood there, unsure of what drew her to the door.

She had never entered before—Tryson had been very clear about keeping their personal spaces separate, even as their professional relationship grew more complex.

She shouldn't have gone in. She knew that. But for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt compelled to cross that threshold.

Without even realizing it, her hand reached for the handle. The door creaked open, and as she stepped into the room, the lights flickered on, casting their warm glow over the scattered canvases.

The space was cluttered, filled with the evidence of Tryson's creative mind at work. Paintings of all sizes adorned the walls, some completed, others still in various stages of progress.

Her gaze wandered, slowly taking in the beauty of the room, until it stopped at a particular canvas placed in the center of the room. Angel's breath caught in her throat as she stared at it.

It was a portrait—a portrait of herself.

The oil painting was still a work in progress, yet every detail was captured with such precision that it almost seemed to come alive.

Her features, the curve of her jaw, the shimmer in her eyes—everything about her was rendered so intimately, so perfectly, that for a moment, she felt exposed.

She hadn't even realized Tryson had been painting her.

Before she could process what she was seeing, she heard his voice from the doorway, soft but unmistakable.

"That's one of my prized possessions," Tryson said, his tone filled with an unexpected sincerity. "I've never been able to bring myself to sell it, even though I've had offers. I don't think I could ever let it go. It's... one of the few things I can't put a price on."

Angel stood frozen, caught between the vulnerability of the moment and the depth of his words. Tryson's gaze softened as he stepped further into the room, his eyes never leaving the painting.

The connection between them felt charged, a mix of unspoken emotions and the weight of their shared history.

For the first time, Angel realized that Tryson's world was not just about power, money, or control. There was something more—a side of him that he kept hidden, even from her.

And in that moment, she wasn't sure whether she was more captivated by the artist or the man himself.