novelraw Chapter 209: How Could Angel Do This?
Chapter 209: How Could Angel Do This?
The room is lit now—but not with the harsh, sterile glare of hospital lights that kept time with my heartbeat for days.
Instead, sunlight spills through the glass wall—warm, golden... almost forgiving.
Deniz pushed the curtains aside completely because I told him I don’t feel good in dim rooms anymore. They remind me of things I want to forget.
Shadows that move when nothing is there.
Corners that seem to breathe.
I sit on the bed, leaning back against a mountain of pillows, my body aching from the inside out.
Not sharp pain—nothing I can point to and name. Just a dull, persistent throb that settles into my bones like an unwanted guest and refuses to leave.
It follows the rhythm of my breathing, rising and falling with every heartbeat. I’ve learned to live with it.
For now.
Deniz sits beside me, close enough that the warmth of him seeps through the thin hospital gown—close enough that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet steadiness of it anchoring me to the present.
He lifts the spoon and blows gently on the soup—his father’s recipe, the one he makes when words aren’t enough—before bringing it to my lips.
I part my mouth and take it. The broth slides down my throat, warm and soothing.
"How is it?" he asks.
His voice is soft, careful—like he’s handling something fragile.
I nod slowly, the movement costing more effort than it should.
"It’s good."
"Are you okay sitting up? Do you feel any pain?"
I look at him— at the worry etched into every line of his face. He’s been here the whole time. Holding my hand. Waiting for me to wake up.
"I’m fine," I say. "Just a little ache. Everywhere."
He doesn’t look convinced.
He stirs the soup slowly, the spoon making small circles in the bowl, his gaze fixed on it—as if it might hold answers to questions he’s afraid to ask.
"The drug was dangerous," he says quietly. "The doctor said it was heavy..."
He swallows. "And you were already struggling with your condition. Your trait changing—your body fighting itself."
A pause. Longer this time.
"That’s why it affected you more than it should have."
The spoon stills. He sets it down.
The soft clink against ceramic echoes in the silence. "We were lucky... we got you here in time."
His voice is steady, but I can hear what lies beneath it—the fear he’s trying to hide, the memory of finding me, the terror of not knowing if I would wake up.
He doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay on the soup, on the rising steam—anywhere but my face.
"I never expected this from him," he says quietly. "I can’t imagine someone like him doing something so dangerous."
I watch him for a long moment. The way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers curl around the bowl.
He’s angry—not the hot, explosive kind, but something deeper. Something that settles in the chest and doesn’t leave.
I look away, my gaze drifting to the glass wall, to the city sprawled below. The buildings catch the sunlight, their windows glittering like scattered diamonds. Cars move in slow rivers through the streets. People live their ordinary lives, unaware of the small universe contained in this room.
How could Angel do this?
The question circles in my mind, a bird that can’t find a place to land. Even now, after everything, I can’t quite believe it.
The boy who took care of me like I was his whole world...
How could he be the one to hurt me like this?
How could someone so gentle... become someone like this?
My voice comes out low, almost a whisper. "Where is Angel?"
Deniz sets the bowl on the table. The ceramic scrapes softly against the wood.
"He wants to see you." A pause. "I told him to leave, but he’s still waiting outside."
His jaw tightens slightly.
"He keeps asking."
He looks at me then, his dark eyes searching mine. "I told him... if you want to see him, I’ll let him in."
I turn my gaze to him slowly—the movement heavy, deliberate, like turning the page of a book I’m afraid to finish.
"Does anyone else know?"
He shakes his head. "No. I covered everything."
His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it—something that sounds like exhaustion.
"If this gets out, Mr. Angel’s career is over. The media will destroy him."
A pause. "And I know..." His voice softens. "I know you’d be hurt if that happened. You still see him as family."
Another pause. "So I made sure nothing leaks." A beat.
"For now."
I stare at him for a long moment. The sunlight catches the side of his face, gilding his cheek, his jaw, the curve of his ear.
He covered everything.
He protected Angel—the person who hurt me—because he knew it would break my heart if Angel’s life fell apart.
Because he knows me.
Because he loves me.
"Did you find out where he got the drug?"
Deniz nods slightly.
"We investigated privately," he says, his voice steady. "We found the woman who sold it to him. His makeup artist."
A pause.
"She’s in police custody now." His jaw tightens. "I’m making sure she’s prosecuted."
His voice breaks—just slightly, just enough to reveal the anger beneath the calm. "Because of what she sold him... you went through so much pain."
My hand reaches for his face. I cup his cheek, my palm warm against his skin, my thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone.
He leans into the touch—just slightly—his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
"I’m fine now," I say softly. "Completely fine. You don’t need to worry."
He takes my hand and presses a kiss to it—my palm, my fingers, my knuckles—his lips warm, gentle, reverent.
"I know you’re not," he whispers against my skin.
A soft smile breaks across my lips—fragile, but real. Before I can speak, a knock sounds at the door.
Deniz looks toward the door, his body tensing slightly. "It must be Mr. Angel."
"Let him in."
He blinks, surprised.
"Are you sure? You don’t have to do this now. You can talk to him later."
"I’m fine."
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something—doubt, fear, hesitation.
He finds none.
He nods slowly, then stands and walks to the door. His footsteps are soft against the polished floor.
He opens it.
Angel stands outside—his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him. He looks smaller than I remember. Diminished.
Deniz steps aside. "Come in."
Angel steps into the room, his movements slow, hesitant—like a man walking toward his own execution.
His eyes are downcast, fixed on the floor. His hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in tangled strands. His eyes are red and swollen—the kind that come from hours of crying.
His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twisting the fabric of his shirt—a nervous habit I once found endearing.
A small window into a soul that couldn’t hide.
Deniz looks at me, his gaze heavy with worry. I nod slightly—just enough to reassure him.
He steps out.
The door closes behind him with a soft click. The silence that follows is thick enough to touch.