Chapter 75

The soft click of the door drew my attention from the file I was reviewing. Freya stood in the doorway, her posture rigid, her gaze distant. Something was wrong. I could feel it.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual as I set the file aside.

“You’re home early. You said you had a meeting,” Freya observed.

“I heard about your mother,” I said, watching her closely. The single syllable carried so much weight, and her expression was impossible to miss—the stiffness in her jaw, the trembling of her hands as she set her purse on the console table, her eyes refusing to meet mine. She was trying to hold it together, but I could see the cracks in her façade.

“How are you feeling?” I asked gently, leaning forward in my chair.

“I—I feel fine. Just great,” she replied, but her humorless chuckle betrayed her. She avoided my gaze, her eyes darting to the floor, and I knew she wasn’t ready to let go yet.

Her shoulders hunched slightly as if she was trying to physically shrink under the weight of her emotions. I stayed quiet, giving her the space to speak on her terms. When I didn’t respond, she finally looked up at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“My parents, they don’t—they want nothing to do with the real me,” she began, her voice breaking slightly. “I mean, I’ve known it for years. And I thought… I thought I had come to terms with it. But today…” Her words faltered, and she took a deep, shaky breath, her lips trembling as she forced herself to continue. “After all these years, she just came to me for money. She didn’t even want me to visit.”

Her words were like a blade twisting in my chest.

She looked up at me, her expression filled with incredulity, as if this whole situation was a cruel joke. “You know, I desperately wished that they were regretting their past actions and were here to make amends,” she said.

My throat tightened. How many times had she hoped for reconciliation? How many nights had she lain awake, clinging to the faintest sliver of hope that they might come back and right their wrongs?

“What happened in the past?” I asked cautiously.

Freya hesitated, as though unsure if she wanted to revisit those memories. But then, with a deep breath, she started.

“I was engaged to Dylan Branson. We had been dating since high school. He is—was—a movie director. And I worked for him.”

My jaw tightened at the mention of his name. Even before she elaborated, I knew where this story was going. Dylan Branson was notorious in certain circles—a man whose charm masked a trail of ruined lives.

“Six years ago, one evening, I went to his place,” Freya continued, her tone bitter. “I had made some cookies, and I wanted to surprise him. Instead, I ended up being surprised. He was cheating on me with his assistant.”

I clenched my fists at my sides, a wave of anger surging through me.

“I promised him that I would make this public news and let everyone know what a cheating bastard he was,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. Then she looked up at me, her eyes raw with emotion. “That night, I met you, and we went back to your place.”

I remembered that night as though it were yesterday. She had been a whirlwind of pain and defiance, her vulnerability shielded by a brittle armor. I had wanted to help her then, to ease her suffering, but she had been too guarded.

“The next day, when I went back to my apartment, my landlady told me I had one month to find another place. She wouldn’t let me stay. I figured it was Dylan’s doing. He was rich, and he had the means to get things done,” Freya said, her voice quiet.

Dylan Branson had just cemented his place at the top of my shit list.

“I didn’t work for Dylan anymore. I didn’t have a job anymore, so I found another, much smaller apartment where the rent was less. I could pay initially with my savings and then find a job,” she explained.

Her voice had taken on a detached quality, as if she was narrating someone else’s story. But I could see the pain in her eyes, the way her hands fidgeted in her lap.

“Well, one month after I moved, she returned most of the deposit. I was again asked to find another place. Apparently, the place wasn’t for rent anymore,” she said, her tone laced with bitterness.

Dylan had ensured she had no stability, no safe place to call home.

“I thought I could go back to my parents and live with them until I could find a job and a place,” Freya said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “Dylan had already fed them some bullshit story about me cheating on him. He spun the whole thing around on me and played the heartbroken role very well.”

“And my parents believed him,” she continued, her voice trembling. “They were kind of ready to believe him.”

She paused, her breath hitching. “They didn’t even let me explain. And conveniently, I was pregnant with Gia at that time. It was proof of infidelity.”

Her bitter laugh cut through the air, sharp and hollow. “Dylan had the last laugh. He threatened me to keep my mouth shut, or he would continue to make my life hell. He knew people would actually believe him. Hell, my parents did.”

Her voice softened, a mix of anger and despair. “How could they do that to me? All those years, how did they discard me in just a second?”

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I leaned forward and cupped her face in my hands. “Because they were shitty parents,” I said firmly, leaving no room for doubt.

She nodded slowly, her lips trembling.