Trapped in a Novel as the D-Class Alpha I Hated Most-Chapter 143: No One Can Take Your Place....

The room is not silent anymore.

Angel and I sit beside each other in the soft lamplight, and the space between us fills with something the chaos of today almost stole from me—laughter.

Real laughter. The kind that comes from nowhere and everywhere, that bubbles up unbidden and spills out like sunlight after rain.

I lean back on the couch, my head resting against the cushioned edge, watching him with a soft, tired smile.

He’s telling me about the photoshoot. About the silly things that happened between takes. About the way the lighting kept shifting and the photographer’s exasperated sighs. His hands move as he talks, animated in a way I rarely see, his golden eyes bright and alive.

He looks relaxed. Calm. Happy.

Spending time with him like this feels peaceful. Like home.

"Zyren."

His voice pulls me from my thoughts. I’ve been staring without realizing it, just drinking in the sight of him so at ease.

"Hmm?" The sound is lazy, content.

He grins, leaning forward conspiratorially.

"Did you know I once caught Ziya napping in the storage room? The way his face changed when he saw me—you’d think he’d committed the biggest crime in history."

I laugh, the sound warm and easy in the quiet room.

"That kid. He’s always running through the company like it’s a marathon. Sometimes I wonder if he needs school more than a job."

Angel laughs too, one hand coming up to cover his mouth in that shy way of his. It’s the first time I’ve seen him like this—so careless, so happy, so utterly without fear.

The sight of it makes something in my chest expand, a warmth that spreads through me like honey.

"Zyren." He’s still giggling, trying to contain it behind his palm.

"I asked him his age once. You know what he said?"

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

"He said he’s older than me!" Angel dissolves into laughter again, his shoulders shaking.

"With that baby face? Everyone can tell he’s barely twenty."

I smile, warmth spreading through me.

"I’m glad you’re having a good time with him at the photoshoot."

Angel nods, still smiling, his cheeks flushed with happiness.

"He’s such a good boy. Really kind. Really sweet."

An idea forms in my mind, gentle and warm.

"Then what about making him your personal assistant?"

Angel’s smile fades. Slowly. Like light retreating from a room when the sun goes down.

"Personal... assistant?"

The words come out slow, careful, as if he’s testing them for poison.

I nod, not yet seeing the shift. "Yes. Personal assistant. Because my Angel deserves to be happy. And if Ziya makes you happy, he should be with you."

I pause, letting the idea settle.

"Then, when I’m busy with work, you won’t feel so lonely."

"No."

The word is loud. Sharp. It cuts through the warm atmosphere like a blade.

I blink, startled.

The room falls silent.

Angel’s eyes are downcast, fixed on his lap where his hands are clenched into tight fists against his trousers. His knuckles are white. His shoulders are rigid.

"No one," he says quietly, his voice trembling, "can take your place."

I stare at him, confusion flickering through me. The shift was so sudden, so complete—from laughter to this, from light to shadow.

I shift closer, closing the distance between us. I reach for his hand, gently, carefully, and slide my fingers between his.

His hand is cold. Tense.

He looks up slowly.

His eyes are wet. Sad. Worried.

"Angel." My voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

"Are you okay?"

He blinks, like he’s just realizing where he is, what he’s said. Like he’s surfacing from somewhere deep and dark.

He looks away quickly, his profile tense, his jaw tight.

"I’m sorry." His voice is small. Broken.

"I didn’t mean to shout. Please forgive me."

"Angel." I squeeze his hand gently.

"Look at me."

Slowly, reluctantly, he turns back.

His eyes are wetter now, tears gathering at the corners, threatening to spill. His lower lip trembles just slightly, a tiny movement he probably doesn’t even notice.

My face shifts into immediate concern.

"Hey."

I lift my free hand, wiping the corner of his eye with my thumb. The tear is warm against my skin.

"If you don’t want an assistant, I’m not forcing you. Please don’t cry."

He swallows hard, his throat moving.

"It’s not like that. I just..."

He trails off, the words catching, struggling to break free from whatever cage holds them.

I wait. Patient. Present. My thumb still resting on his cheek.

Finally, in a voice so quiet I almost miss it, he says, "Zyren... if I get an assistant... you won’t give me time anymore."

The words hit me like stones dropped into still water.

I feel them land in my chest, heavy and cold.

He’s worried. Worried that if someone else is there to spend time with him, I’ll stop.

That I’ll forget him. That I’ll move on. That I’ll leave him alone in this big empty mansion.

A sad smile touches my lips. Gentle. Understanding. Full of an ache I can’t quite name.

I wipe his eye again, my thumb lingering on his soft skin.

"My innocent Angel."

He blinks up at me, tears still shining in the lamplight.

"You’re worrying about nothing."

I hold his gaze, willing him to see the truth there, to feel it in the warmth of my hand still wrapped around his.

"If you get an assistant, it doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore you. That’s not how this works." I pause, letting the words settle.

"I’m always with you. Even if you get a partner someday, I’m always with you."

He shakes his head quickly, like a child refusing something they don’t understand, don’t want to understand.

"I don’t want a partner."

My smile widens. Warms. Becomes something genuine and bright despite the tears in his eyes.

"Angel."

My voice is soft, fond, full of everything I feel for him.

"Don’t act like a little child. Everyone has a soulmate. I’m sure one day you’ll find yours."

He doesn’t answer. Just stays silent, his eyes on me, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Something old and scared and hopeful all at once.

Then, quietly, "Zyren."

"Hmm?"

"Promise me." His voice is barely a whisper, fragile as glass.

"Promise me you won’t leave me. No matter what happens."

The words land in my chest and settle there, heavy and precious and aching.

I look at him. At this beautiful, broken, perfect soul who has given me everything and asked for so little.

At the tears on his cheeks and the hope in his eyes.

I smile—bright and real and full of everything I feel.

"Why would I leave you?" I say softly.

"You’re the only family I have."

I wait for his answer. For his smile. For some sign that he believes me.

Instead, he moves.

He pushes forward, wrapping his arms around me in a tight, desperate hug. His face presses against my shoulder, his breath warm through my shirt, his body trembling just slightly.

"Promise me," he whispers against my ear.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, holding him safe. My hand moves to his hair, stroking gently, soothingly.

"Promise," I murmur.

And in the soft lamplight, surrounded by silence and warmth and the weight of his trust, I mean it with everything I have.

I always will.