When Oliver entered the room, his eyes immediately found Angela. Her head was lowered in shame, and her posture was stiff. Ralph was gently brushing her hair, his actions tender and almost affectionate. Still reeling from the earlier shock, Angela pushed him away and hurriedly ran to the living room.
Ralph, ever polite, greeted Oliver with a nod, then turned to Angela and waved.
"Goodnight," he said before leaving.
Angela collapsed onto the sofa, curling up and burying her head on her knees. She didn't notice the look in Oliver's eyes, dark and unsettling, like a storm waiting to break.
Oliver stood tall, his shadow looming over her. The air in the room grew dense with tension. Angela could feel the shift—his anger was palpable. She looked up, only to meet his gaze, filled with disgust that made her stomach churn.
"Uncle, he... He tried to touch me. I didn't..." Angela stammered, her voice trembling.
"There are plenty of hotels. Don't bring him back here!" Oliver's voice cracked with restrained fury. His anger surged in waves, a storm that he could barely contain.
His cold, burning fury felt like a knife in Angela's chest. Was he accusing her of flirting with Gwen's nephew? Was she the liar, the troublemaker, while everyone else was innocent? It was the same—no matter what happened, she was always the one to blame.
Her heart sank. The reality of it all hit her again. She didn't want to argue, didn't want to say another word. She sank further into the sofa, pulling a cushion over her head to shield herself from the world, from him.
Her wound throbbed, reminding her of the pain, of the bruises and cuts, both physical and emotional. She needed rest. She could feel her body trembling from exhaustion.
The sound of footsteps gradually faded as Oliver went upstairs. Angela remained there, eyes shut tight, and the soft weight of the cushion against her face provided a slight sense of comfort.
...
In the middle of the night, Angela was on the verge of sleep when she suddenly felt herself being lifted. The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—an aroma that had once brought her comfort but now felt strangely overpowering. It was Oliver.
She remembered waiting on the sofa for him to come home when she was younger. She would often fall asleep before he arrived, and he would always find her there, never waking or scolding. He would gently pick her up, carry her back to her room, and tuck her in.
But now, the familiar scent of her room was missing. Instead, the more pungent scent of sandalwood mingled with the sharp, stinging tang of alcohol.
Oliver laid her down on his bed. The space beside her dipped as he joined her. Before she could react, he pushed her down with a heavyweight, his body pressing down on hers.
Without a word, his hands tore at her skirt, one sliding inside while the other grabbed her face, kissing her with a fierce urgency.
"You...I..." His words were muffled between their lips, and he kissed her harder as though trying to consume her entirely.
Angela struggled, desperate to break free, but the disparity in strength was overwhelming. His breath, warm and laden with the smell of alcohol, washed over her. Soon, the intoxicating scent made her dizzy, and she felt herself slipping, unable to resist.
This was not the same as before. She remembered that night—they had both been willing. But now, he was on the verge of marrying Gwen, and Angela was no longer willing to be used or swept away by his touch.
In a panic, she grabbed the hand that was wreaking havoc on her body and bit down hard.
His breath faltered, and for a moment, he stopped. But even as he collapsed beside her, he kept half of his weight on her, still pinning her to the bed.
Angela pushed with all her strength, but it was no use. She kept biting, trying to break free. It wasn't until the salty taste of his blood filled her mouth that she finally let go.
Oliver's breathing had become steady, and aside from the slight furrow of his brows, there was no sign of his usual intensity. He had drunk too much, Angela realized.
How much had he consumed to be this far gone?
...
The following day, Angela woke up alone. The bed was empty, and the room was silent. Panic rose within her. She quickly jumped out of bed, her heart racing, and ran to her room. She knocked over empty bottles, their clinking sound echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet house.
Oliver was gone.
She had to leave—now.
Last night, Joanne had called to tell her that the old mansion in New York had already been sold. Angela hadn't been surprised. The house had been sold at a ridiculously low price. It was just another sign that everything was changing.
Now, the house she lived in had caught someone else's eye. The realtor had already called, asking when it would be convenient for a viewing.
Angela tightly gripped her phone, her thoughts swirling. After a moment's hesitation, she decided to call Oliver.
The line rang, but there was only a busy signal before it abruptly disconnected.
Frustrated, she called his assistant instead. After waiting a few minutes, she was told Oliver was in a long meeting.
Angela sighed, making a quick decision. She contacted the realtor and set up a viewing for later. She couldn't stay here any longer—not with Oliver or Gwen.
She had to move on.
