Angel's head snapped toward the door the instant she heard the soft yet unmistakable click of the latch.
Her body remained frozen in place, her pulse steady yet alert, as she expected Tryson to be the one stepping inside.
But the moment her gaze landed on the man who actually entered, a wave of disappointment dulled her features, her expression settling into an involuntary frown.
The man before her was fair-skinned, impeccably groomed, and draped in an expensive, tailed suit that screamed luxury.
Every inch of him exuded refinement and authority, from the polished sheen of his shoes to the way he carried himself—calm, poised, and utterly unbothered.
"You must be Miss Angel, if I'm not mistaken," he said, his voice smooth, measured, and oddly confident.
Angel blinked, her curiosity instantly piqued. Who the hell was this man?
Straightening her posture, she ran a hand through her hair, adjusting it as if she needed to prepare for whatever was about to unfold.
