Chapter 25

FREYA’S POV

The valet reached for the door before I could catch my breath.

Brandon glanced at me from the other side of the car, offering his hand just as the cool evening breeze swept through the parking circle, tugging at my gown. For a moment, I didn’t move. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I needed a second—just one—to gather the version of myself I had so carefully put together.

Then I stepped out.

Cameras flashed—nothing too wild, just a few discreet ones from media reps stationed near the entrance for the company’s press release. A low murmur rippled through the crowd as Brandon and I walked up the carpeted steps. I felt it in the air—the pause, the lingering glances, the curiosity, the comparison.

Good.

Brandon’s hand stayed at the small of my back, warm and grounding. He looked every bit the part—black tailored tuxedo, crisp white shirt, satin bowtie, and that unmistakable ease he wore like a second skin. He didn’t just look powerful—he looked in control. Present. With me.

And I?

I wore midnight blue silk, a color that moved like liquid beneath the golden lights of the ballroom. The gown hugged me with gentle authority, revealing just enough, concealing just as much. My hair was swept to one side, a soft wave cascading down my shoulder. My heels clicked softly against the marble floors. The look in my eyes wasn’t born of makeup.

It was survival.

We stepped into the grand ballroom, and the scene nearly took my breath away. Crystal chandeliers hung like galaxies overhead, bathing everything in a soft golden hue. Tables were dressed in ivory linens with tall arrangements of white orchids and eucalyptus, flickering candlelight catching on cut glass. The hum of violins filled the room, balanced by low conversation and clinking glasses.

Brandon leaned down just slightly. “You okay?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. I wasn’t sure if it was the elegance of the venue or the fact that I knew who I would inevitably see tonight. Probably both.

Kyle was near the bar when we entered. He spotted us instantly and raised his glass in greeting, looking polished and sharp in a charcoal-gray tux. He made his way over, slipping between guests with practiced ease.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lefevre,” he greeted with a mock bow. “Stunning entrance.”

I grinned despite the nerves bubbling beneath my skin. “You clean up well, Kyle.”

He offered a wink. “I do my best, but tonight the spotlight’s definitely not on me.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the far side of the ballroom. I didn’t need to follow it to know where he was looking. I felt the prickle of it on the back of my neck. Rachelle. Bryan.

“Don’t let them ruin your night,” Kyle added under his breath, then melted back into the crowd like smoke.

Brandon offered me a flute of champagne. “Ready?”

I took it from him and sipped. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” he said with a small smile. “But we’ll handle it together.”

We made our way toward the central seating area. Faces turned. Some smiled, others nodded politely, and a few outright stared. The kind of stares that weren’t rude exactly, but full of questions no one dared voice aloud. The kind of stares that hinted at whispers already in motion.

Brandon placed a hand on my waist as we walked, our steps perfectly in sync. I didn’t shrink from the attention. Not tonight.

Then I saw them.

Bryan was standing near one of the marble columns, drink in hand, suit pressed to perfection. He hadn’t changed much. Still the same strong jawline, still the same polished charm—only now it looked slightly performative, like he was holding together a version of himself he wasn’t quite sure belonged.

And then Rachel appeared beside him, draped in a scarlet gown that screamed notice me—and everyone did. Her lips were red, her eyes smoky, her smile poised. Her hand curled possessively around Bryan’s arm as her gaze zeroed in on me.

There it was.

The flicker of surprise.

The flash of calculation.

I held her gaze. Steady. Silent. I could almost hear her mind scrambling to adjust whatever version of me she’d built up in her head. I wasn’t supposed to show up like this—elegant, composed, untouchable. I was supposed to be fragile. Haunted. Less.

Too bad.

“Don’t look at them,” Brandon murmured beside me, his voice low, for me only. “They don’t matter.”

“They used to,” I said, not bitter, just honest. “But not tonight.”

He gave me the briefest nod of approval.

The dinner portion of the evening began shortly after, with guests moving to their assigned seats. Brandon and I were placed near the front, at one of the center tables with senior board members and long-time investors. Rachel and Bryan were diagonally across from us, a few tables away—close enough to see, but far enough that I didn’t have to hear the sound of her laughter.

Kyle was seated a table behind us, next to a bright-eyed executive from the marketing team who kept leaning over to whisper hilarious commentary. I could tell he was doing it for my sake. To make me smile. And it worked.

The food arrived in courses: a delicately plated appetizer of seared scallops, followed by a roasted duck entrée and a chocolate mousse tower for dessert. Everything was impeccable, right down to the gold-rimmed china and the carefully folded napkins.

But I barely tasted it.

Not because I wasn’t hungry—but because I was hyperaware of every breath, every movement, every glance exchanged across the room. And yet, somewhere in the chaos of my thoughts, I kept coming back to Brandon—his hand resting calmly on mine when no one was watching, the way he subtly leaned in whenever I spoke, like no one else in the room mattered.

Eventually, there was a brief speech from the chairman, a toast from Brandon, and a round of polite applause. People started moving again, drinks flowing freely, conversations bubbling into laughter.

Rachel found her way toward us. I felt her before I saw her—like cold air slipping into a warm room.

“Brandon,” she greeted smoothly. “Freya.”

We both turned. Her tone was polite. Too polite.

“Rachel,” Brandon said with a nod, all civility.

“You look...” She let her eyes run over me, lips curved in a faint smile. “Different.”

“Stronger,” I replied, lifting my glass to her. “Life tends to do that.”

A flicker in her expression. Barely there. But I saw it.

She didn’t reply.

She turned to Brandon. “Lovely event. Congratulations.”

“We’re glad you could make it.”

Her smile tightened. “Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.”

And with that, she drifted away.

I exhaled, long and slow.

Brandon leaned in. “You were perfect.”

“She hates me.”

“She’s confused,” he corrected. “She’s seeing something she didn’t expect. That’s not hate. That’s fear.”

I smiled. “Then she should be terrified.”

By the time the evening began to wind down, I was no longer watching the room—I was simply in it. Standing tall. Laughing softly. Holding Brandon’s hand like I belonged.

Because I did.

Not because I was the most beautiful woman in the room, or the most powerful—but because I had walked through fire to get here. And I hadn’t come out burned.

I had come out radiant.