Innocence Is Not Always Pure

Angela shook her head almost imperceptibly. "There's no one," she said. Her voice was flat, as though the admission no longer carried the sting it once had.

"No one?" Lyan repeated, his brow furrowing. He had never met anyone without a lifeline before, no matter how fragile. "You must have somewhere to stay, at least."

Her silence was his answer.

Andrew cleared his throat, his eyes flicking to Lyan in the mirror. "Sir, perhaps we could—"

"Yes," Lyan interrupted, already knowing where this was going. "Angela, you'll stay at my place tonight. We'll figure everything out in the morning."

Angela turned to him then, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of gratitude and hesitation. "I couldn't possibly... You've already done too much—"

"Nonsense," Lyan said firmly. "You need rest, and it's clear you're not in a position to be on your own right now. Let me help."

Her lips parted as if to argue, but then she closed them again, nodding reluctantly. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

She really needed an escape route. She also knew that if she left, her mother would be in trouble unless they escaped together. She knew that if she called her mom, it might get worse.

"I might bring you trouble," She said to Lyan in a low voice.

Lyan smiled, "Do I look troubled? No. I'm a man who can handle any situation." He then got closer to Angela that Angela's heart skipped a beat. "But I am curious how a beautiful, young girl find herself in such trouble. Your face portrays innocence, but the question is: are you innocent?"

Lyan then leaned back in his seat, waiting for her to respond. And from there, he would know what to do next.

"I don't know!" Angela said, trying to stop herself from shedding a tear.

Lyan didn't know why he felt so compelled to help her, why her sadness seemed to reach out and grip him in a way he couldn't ignore. But as he watched her turn back to the window, her face a canvas of unspoken pain, he knew one thing for certain. Women were the greatest weakness for successful men like him.

"Has anyone sent you? To spy on me?" he asked.

Angela was puzzled, "Who was this man who thinks that everyone was after him? What if he is more trouble than what I am running from." Angela's mind started to run before she felt as if someone was saying, "Run!"

Instead of answering Lyan's question, Angela removed the jacket and blanket and handed them to Lyan, "Park the car," she said to Andrew.

Both Lyan and Andrew were puzzled.

"This girl has more secrets," Lyan thought, eyeing her thoughtfully.

Andrew looked at Lyan as if waiting for approval. 

"No," Lyan's voice was calm but firm. "You are not stopping."

Angela's fingers tightened on the fabric of the jacket she had just returned to him.

"Lyan," she said, her voice steady but carrying an edge of urgency. "Please."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest. "Angela," he said smoothly, "What are you afraid of? Take the jacket, and the blanket and cover yourself. I am not repeating myself." 

Whether Angela was dangerous or innocent, he had already fallen for her.He knew the way his heart was beating was different from how he tried to appear.

This was no ordinary encounter. Whatever storm had brought Angela into his path, Lyan was determined to weather it with her. Even if it meant stepping into her darkness, piece by piece, until he could find the light she seemed to have lost.

It was already 7 p.m. when they reached Lyan's villa.

Andrew parked the car and opened the door for Lyan. Lyan got out of the car and helped Angela out. Angela was surprised. Angela was surprised. For a moment, she thought it was a hotel or a guesthouse. "Do you stay here?" she asked.

Lyan chuckled softly at Angela's question, his breath visible in the crisp evening air. "Yes, I stay here. You don't have to be afraid of me," he replied with a wry smile.

Angela glanced up at the sprawling villa before her, its modern architecture illuminated by soft golden lights. The tall glass windows glimmered against the dark backdrop of the rain-soaked night, and the manicured gardens seemed to stretch endlessly, their wet leaves catching the faint glow from the pathway lamps.

"It's... beautiful," she said hesitantly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She wasn't sure if she felt out of place or simply overwhelmed by the grandeur.

"Thank you," Lyan said, his tone warm but matter-of-fact. He gestured toward the entrance. "Come on, let's get you inside. You need to dry off and warm up."

Angela hesitated for a moment, glancing at the car as though contemplating retreat. Lyan noticed her hesitation and offered her a reassuring smile. "You're safe here, Angela," he said softly, his voice carrying an unexpected gentleness. "No one will bother you. I promise."

Something in his tone—or maybe the sincerity in his eyes—convinced her. She nodded and followed him up the steps, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the rain.

The inside of the villa was even more breathtaking. The foyer opened into a spacious living room with high ceilings and a large fireplace crackling softly in the corner. Plush rugs covered the hardwood floors, and the walls were adorned with understated yet elegant art. The warmth of the interior was a stark contrast to the chill of the night outside.

"Andrew," Lyan called, glancing over his shoulder. His PA appeared almost instantly, as though anticipating his command.

"Tell Mrs Jones to prepare the guest room, and bring some tea," Lyan instructed.

"Right away, sir," Andrew said, disappearing down the hallway.

Lyan turned back to Angela. "Would you like to sit by the fire? It'll help you warm up."

Angela nodded, her steps tentative as she made her way to the fireplace. She sat on the edge of the plush armchair, her body language still guarded.

Lyan watched her for a moment, his hands in his pockets. She was a puzzle, each piece more intriguing than the last. There was a quiet strength in her, despite the vulnerability she wore like a second skin.

As the firelight played across her face, Lyan couldn't help but wonder what secrets she was hiding. Who—or what—was she running from? And why did it feel like helping her wasn't just the right thing to do, but something he was meant to do?

Angela's gaze flicked to him, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. It was fleeting, but in that instant, Lyan saw something raw and unguarded—fear, yes, but also determination.

"Thank you," she said again, her voice firmer this time. "For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," Lyan replied, his tone gentle. "Just... let me help."

Angela looked away, her fingers gripping the edges of the blanket. For the first time in a long while, she felt a sliver of hope. But alongside it came a nagging fear: "what would happen when he found out the truth?"

Lyan found himself captivated by Angela in a way he hadn't expected. There was an innocence about her, a quiet strength masked by vulnerability, that drew him in.

"God! She is so beautiful!" she murmured to himself as a smile crossed his lips. The firelight danced across her face, accentuating the softness of her features. Her hazel eyes, though rimmed with lingering tears, seemed to hold worlds within them—worlds of pain, resilience, and stories untold.

Her lips, slightly parted as she stared into the flames, were flushed from the cold, and her damp curls framed her face like a portrait he couldn't look away from. She was beautiful, yes, but it wasn't just her appearance that left him so unsettled—it was something deeper, something magnetic.

He swallowed, forcing himself to focus. "What's happening to me now?"