Chapter Four

Freya

The first thing I registered was beeping. Steady. Mechanical. And underneath it, the hush of a world outside the room.

I opened my eyes.

White ceiling. Fluorescent light. A bag of clear fluid dripping into a tube taped to the back of my hand. Hospital.

I turned my head, slowly, and the room assembled itself in fragments. A sofa at the left side of the room, a window with blinds. And at my side, a chair no one was sitting in.

No Adrian. No Selene. No parents. No one.

Then memory came back with full force and for a moment, hope flickered. Maybe the woods had been the dream. Maybe I'd fainted at home, maybe I'd had an accident, maybe everyone was in the hallway so they wouldn't disturb me.

Sitting up, pain crashed through me. My head. My shoulder. My ribs. Everything I owned hurt at once.

I swung my legs off the bed. The floor was cold under my feet. My knees buckled immediately—I caught the bed rail and tried to stand slowly.

The room tilted, then steadied, then tilted again. I pressed my palm flat against the rail and waited for it to pass.

Then, I looked down at my hand. Still the same. Short nails, the same faint scar on my thumb from a paper cutter in the Calloway Textiles design room. That, at least, hadn't changed. I clung to it amidst the cold memory of Adrian's horrific look and Selene satisfied expression.

Shaking the memory off, I focused instead on what was truly important right now. I needed a phone. I needed my parents. And maybe, someone who would tell me this had all been some terrible, elaborate mistake.

The bedstand had nothing. No phone. No bag. And not even shoes beside the bed. Looking down at the hospital gown and the plastic bracelet on my wrist my brows furrowed at the weird letters written on it.

Where the hell am I?

Shuffling toward the door, I dragged the IV pole with me, my heart hammering against my ribs hard enough that I could hear it in my ears. The hallway outside was longer than the room, brighter, full of people—patients in wheelchairs, staff in scrubs, a man arguing with someone behind a glass partition. Signs on the walls. Letters I couldn't read.

No sight of anyone familiar. At least, mom and dad.

A nurse approached slowly, seemingly concerned, saying something in a low urgent voice. The words flowed past me, making no sense.

"I'm sorry—" My voice came out a rasp. "I don't—I don't understand you. Do you speak English? English?"

More words. Softer this time. A question, by the lilt of it. She touched my elbow, gently, trying to steer me back toward the room, and panic flared in my chest instantly.

"No—wait—" I pulled back. "Please. Where am I? Where am I?"

Her face did something kind and helpless at the same time.

And then, from somewhere behind me—

"Freya."

I turned.

The hallway tilted and steadied, and through the blur of faces, one stood out like a photograph in a burning room. A woman. Older—sixty, maybe. Silver hair swept back, a long dark coat, an absolutely stillness about her that made everyone around her look like they were moving in fast-forward.

I'd seen that face exactly once in my life.

Two months ago. The Calloway building. She'd come for a meeting with my father about shipping contracts—Kral Maritime, the name whispered like a rumor even in our circles, a fortune that moved cargo across half the world and refused to be photographed doing it. She'd passed me in the corridor. Looked at me for exactly three seconds before dad hurried me away from her like she was contagious.

Angelina Kral.

Relief hit me so hard my eyes stung.

"Mrs. Kral—" I lurched toward her, IV pole clattering. "Oh thank God—finally someone. Please, where am I?" The questions came out tangled, falling over each other. "What hospital is this? My family—does anyone know I'm here? My parents—they must be frantic, please, I need a phone, I need to call—"

Something moved across her face. Not surprise. More like she was studying me, just like the first time we met.

"You're in Prague, Freya," she finally replied. Her English was flawless, unhurried. "You've been here quite some time."

"Prague." The word didn't land. "That's—that's not possible. I was—I live in Chicago, I was—" Pushed off a balcony by my sister and left to die in the woods by my husband. "There was an accident. I need to report it. Mrs. Kral, please—will you help me call the police? I need to tell them what happened. I need to tell everyone what—"

"Freya." She stepped closer to me. "You need to calm down. Before you call anyone—"

The sudden increase in the voice on the television behind her instantly drained out her voice.

My breath caught at the words display on it in English. The voice sounded bright and cheerful, but the words made no sense.

Calloway.

An engagement announcement.

Between my husband, Adrian Kingsley, and my sister, Selene Calloway.

That's. . . impossible.

It wasn't even up to a day yet, and I was already being replaced? Had they been waiting all along. What were they doing? Did nom and dad not know. . .

The image displayed immediately after knocked what was left of the air out of my lungs.

My sister, in white, glowing, and beside her Adrian in a suit I recognized, because I'd picked it out. And on either side of them, like a family portrait, was. . . my parents. Smiling.

I moved closer, away from Angelina, the whole situation still like a dream. Was this some game? There was no way. . .

Then my eyes caught the corner of the screen. Everything in me stilled. The numbers there made no sense.

13.08.2022

I stared at it.

"No," The word came out quietly. More like a conviction to myself. Then louder. "No, that's not—that's wrong."

"Freya." Angelina Kral's voice came behind me again. Closer now.

"It's wrong." My voice climbed, turning to face her. "That's wrong, that's—it's 2021. It's August 2021. That was—that was yesterday, that was one day ago, I was going to Milan, I had a flight, Luke called, it was yesterday—"

The date on the screen didn't blink, didn't waver. It just sat there, mocking me with its certainty. And no one seemed to be bothered by it either.

I looked to Angelina for something—anything—to contradict it, but her face held only that same terrible stillness, offering no comfort, no correction. The room narrowed to a pinpoint.

My legs went.

She caught me before I could hit the ground, arms firmly holding me up.

"What—" I shook my head.

"No. No, I need to go home." I pushed past her, toward the elevators at the end of the hall, bare feet slapping the cold floor. "I need to get home—I need to call the police, do you understand? They tried to kill me. My husband and my sister—they pushed me off a balcony, they left me in the woods to die, and I'm going to—I'm going to tell everyone—"

"Freya."

Angelina Kral stepped into my path and closed her hands around my shoulders. Firmly.

"Stop," she snapped, turning me to face her. "Just calm down and look," she said. "You're a clever girl. You know how to read a room. Do it right now, Freya."

"I don't—" I stammered, shaking my head furiously.

"It's the thirteenth of August, 2022," she said, each word laid down flat and cold. "It's been a year already. Life has since changed while you were in a coma. Your husband is engaged to your sister. And you, Freya Calloway."

“You are dead."​