Chapter Two

Freya

"I'll have my lawyers draw up the divorce papers by the end of the day." I continued, stepping closer to him. "And I'll be sure your godfather receives a full briefing on why."

His face went gray. "You wouldn't."

Selene's little smile finally faltered. "Freya, you can't—you don't have the authority to—"

"I built the division, Selene. Every contract. Every clause. Every handshake you two are standing on. You wanted everything I had?" A bitter smile tugged at the edge of my lips. “Try starting from scratch yourself."

Turning, my heels clicked against the floor. Footsteps echoed behind me as I flung the door open.

"Freya—wait—wait—" He called, hauling me back against the balcony railing just before I descended the staircase. "You're not thinking straight." His eyes were wild in a way I'd never seen. "You think you can just call this off because you said so? Who do you think you are?"

“The succession ceremony is next month—next month, Freya. Are you really going to ruin everything for me just because of a single mistake? You know my godfather is going to kill me. Do you think he keeps people around who embarrass him? He's going to ruin the both of us!"

A dry scoff escaped me. The audacity. The tears came running now.

"Three years," I choked out, fingernails digging into my palm. "Three years, Adrian. I covered your accounts when they were in the red. I sat in meetings your father should have been in and carried proposals no one else in that room could read, let alone write. I built the Milan pipeline while you were—" my breath caught, "—while you were doing this?"

"Freya—"

"You asked me once if I could get your godfather's signature on the Marseille contract. Do you remember what you said? You said, 'You're the only one he respects.' The only one." I laughed wetly. "And I was happy. I came home and I was happy because you'd said one sentence to me that sounded like need. Do you know how small a woman has to be made to feel grateful for one sentence?"

Something shifted in his face. Not remorse. Something worse—impatience.

"Here we go again," he muttered.

"What?"

"The ledger. The great Freya Calloway ledger." He stepped back, raking a hand through his hair. "Everything you did, written down, itemized, ready to present at trial. You want to know something, Freya? This—" he gestured between us, "—this was never going to be what you wanted it to be. Ever."

The hallway went very quiet.

"We had an arrangement," he said. "Our families arranged it. I never lied about what it was. Did I ever once tell you—ever—that this was a love match? Did I ever pretend—"

"You let me cook for you. You let me—" My voice splintered. "You let me love you. That's not nothing. You don't get to call that nothing."

"And what was I supposed to do?" His voice rose, cracking with a bitterness that was almost honest. "My godfather signed the papers before I was even told. You think I would have chosen—" He stopped.

But he'd already said it. The shape of the unsaid words hung in the air between us, heavier than anything he could have spoken aloud.

You think I would have chosen you?

I stared at him. "Say it."

"Freya—"

"Say it."

He looked away. And that was its own answer—cleaner, crueler than the words.

Behind us, Selene, wrapped in my robe now, emerged, arms folded. "You're making this so much harder than it has to be," she said gently. "He made one mistake, Freya. One. Men do that. It doesn't mean anything. You don't have to ruin everything over this. Think of mom and dad"

I laughed, whirling on her. "Mom and dad? You think I care what they think?"

"I don't care," I snapped. My voice dropped to something low and raw. "You hear me? I don't care whatever this is has been, what mom and dad think, or what anyone else has to say. I'm going to take everything back. Every favor anyone in this family ever got because of me. Let's tear it all down and see what it looks like when I stop being useful."

Adrian's face went white.

"You wouldn't survive a week," I said, pushing back at him with a finger. "Neither would she." My eyes glanced towards Selene who was now holding onto his arm. “Or your precious announcement next month."

Grabbing the railing, I brushed past them, about to descend the stairs when a hand shoved into me from the back.

I turned back just in time to hear Selene whisper. "Sorry, sister. If you won't be reasonable, then I'll decide for you."

My legs were already slipping by the time I recognised what the words meant. My body tossed over the railing. I desperately grabbed the nearest iron bar, my fingers locking around it as my body dangled over the edge.

“Freya!” A hand immediately closed around my wrist.

The jerk nearly tore my arm from its socket. My shoulder slammed against the stone wall, my feet kicking uselessly through empty air.

“Adrian—!”

He was already leaning over the railing, one hand gripping mine, his face strained with effort.

“Hold on!” he gasped. “Freya, give me your other hand!”

I reached up.

My fingers brushed his sleeve.

Then Selene leaned into his ear, eyes on me. “Let her go, Adrian. Think about everything you could lose. The succession, the merger. Everything we've fought so hard for.”

Adrian went still.

Only for a second.

And I felt my stomach drop.

No. No, please.

His eyes flicked toward Selene, then back to me, the calculation already going on behind it.

My fingers tightened around his wrist. “Adrian…”

He looked down at me. For one terrible heartbeat, I thought I saw hesitation. Then his grip loosened.

My breath caught.

“No. Adrian—" My voice rang louder. Broken. Pleading. "Adrian, please—please—"

"Freya," he said, breathless, almost tender. "I—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't—"

"NO." Everything in me screamed it. "Adrian, no— I take it back, all of it, I won't tell anyone, I swear, I swear on my life, just pull me up, please, please—I swear—"

His fingers slipped slowly away from mine, the view above etched into me in with one more slip.

Selene, at his shoulder—smiling. Small. Serene. The smile of a girl who had finally gotten what she'd always wanted.

Adrian—his face crumpling into something I'd never seen on him before, that I'd thought him incapable of, and understanding, too late, exactly what it was: Horror.

At me. Or at himself. I would never know.

The last thing I saw was the two of them leaning over the edge of my balcony, over the whole three years of my marriage, over the smallness I'd been made to swallow my entire life—

Then there was only speed.

Cold, roaring, endless speed.

Then pain—

Then nothing at all.