"You've got a sharp tongue. I like that," Derrick said, his voice smooth like velvet but laced with something darker—something that made Angel instinctively tighten her grip on her bag.
His eyes trailed over her features with a kind of indulgent pleasure, as though she were some rare piece of art he couldn't wait to possess.
But Angel met his gaze with a calmness that was almost eerie.
She didn't blink, didn't flinch—just stared at him with the coldest warmth she could muster, a serene expression masking the whirlwind of thoughts churning behind her eyes.
It wasn't courtesy that kept her composed. It wasn't fear either. No, she was simply waiting.
Waiting for the perfect moment to hand him his own bitterness on a silver platter.
Her silence wasn't surrender—it was strategy.
"It seems there are quite a number of things we'll need to unpack," Angel said her tone deliberately soft, almost too casual, as if she were commenting on the weather.
