Chapter 36

FREYA

Sleep didn’t come easily, not at first. I lay on my side, curled beneath the soft comforter, staring at the dim outlines of furniture in the room. The city outside was quiet tonight, the usual hum of life dulled to a distant whisper. But even in the calm, my thoughts were restless, running in small, frantic circles.

Brandon was still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth or maybe going over his nightly routine with the kind of discipline he always carried—always precise, always reliable. That thought should’ve soothed me, and in a strange way, it did.

We didn't stay in the same room but next door to each other, I always heard the tap running and going off. I've heard it all so often that I know when he goes to bed and when he wakes up, when he sleeps in his study and when he decides to sleep in his bed room instead. 

But what really settled the knots in my chest wasn’t the stillness of the room or the familiarity of his presence. It was what I’d said earlier. What I had finally let go of.

Telling him the truth—about the things Bryan told me, about how I believed him, even if just for a while—felt like releasing a stone I didn’t realize I’d been carrying. It had been sitting in my gut all this time, quiet and heavy, weighing down every moment I questioned Brandon’s kindness or doubted his intentions.

Now, that stone was gone. Or at least, it had begun to chip away.

I sighed and rolled onto my back, one hand drifting to rest gently on my stomach. My body had started to change—softening in places, stretching in others. It was subtle for now, but I could feel it. Life, growing inside me. It still felt surreal some days, like I might wake up and realize I’d dreamed all of this—Brandon, the marriage, the baby, the complicated but blooming sense of home we were building together.

But tonight, I didn’t feel uncertain.

I felt… peace.

Not just because he forgave me—though that mattered more than I could ever say—but because we were building something real now, and I had finally chosen to stop holding pieces of myself back.

I didn’t want secrets between us. Not when we were raising a child together. Not when we were trying—really trying—to make this marriage work, not as a contract or a convenience, but as something honest. Something true.

Brandon and I hadn’t started with love. That was the part no one from the outside would understand. But what we were growing into? It felt stronger than the sparks that usually defined the beginning of a romance. This wasn’t about infatuation. This was about trust, vulnerability, and the courage to stay when things weren’t perfect.

The bedroom door creaked open, and soft footsteps crossed the room. I felt the bed dip beside me as Brandon climbed in, the mattress adjusting to his weight. A moment later, I felt the familiar warmth of his arm wrap gently around my waist, pulling me close.

“You still awake?” he asked, his voice a low murmur against the hush of the room.

“Yeah,” I breathed, turning slightly so I could tuck my head beneath his chin. “Just thinking.”

“About earlier?”

“Yeah.” I paused. “I didn’t realize how much it was weighing on me until I finally said it out loud.”

Brandon’s thumb moved in soft circles along my hip. “I’m glad you did.”

I let out a slow exhale. “Me too. I don’t want to have secrets. I know we didn’t start like… other couples, but I don’t want that to stop us from being honest with each other. Especially now. Especially with the baby.”

He was quiet for a second, then kissed the top of my head. “There won’t be secrets,” he said. “Not between us.”

I closed my eyes at the conviction in his voice. It wasn’t a promise made lightly. Brandon didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

“Do you ever think about what kind of parents we’ll be?” I asked quietly.

“All the time.”

I smiled against his chest. “I want us to be the kind of parents our child can trust. Not perfect—but open. Safe. The kind of parents who listen when something’s wrong and don’t pretend everything’s okay when it’s not.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, his fingers brushing through my hair. “One thing at a time.”

I nodded slowly. “I’m glad I told you about Bryan. It… cleared a space in my heart. A space I didn’t know needed clearing.”

Brandon chuckled softly. “That sounds like something you’d say in one of your recipe notes.”

I laughed, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Excuse me, I write beautiful recipe notes.”

He grinned. “You do. Even if half of them are illegible from your kitchen scribbles.”

I swatted him lightly, and he caught my wrist in his hand, holding it gently before leaning down to kiss it. The playfulness between us was easy now, natural in a way it hadn’t always been. This kind of warmth—it didn’t have to be loud to be real. It was there in the way he looked at me when I wasn’t speaking. The way he remembered how I liked my tea. The way he had gone completely still with fury that night Bryan tried to corner me at the dinner.

Brandon might have had a hardened exterior from the world he grew up in, but when it came to me, to this growing little family we were creating—he was soft. He was careful. He was present.

And I trusted him now. Truly.

“Do you think Bryan knows?” I asked after a while.

“Knows what?”

“That I don’t believe him anymore. That his words don’t stick the way they used to.”

Brandon considered that. “I don’t know. But I think he’s realizing he can’t control you the way he thought he could.”

“That probably drives him crazy,” I said, and Brandon let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh.

“He’s losing the one thing that gave him power—your doubt.”

I thought about that for a moment. How long I’d lived in that strange limbo of second-guessing everything. The hesitation that made me shrink myself in a room. The whispers that turned into inner voices. But that part of me was shrinking now. Not because it had vanished completely—but because I was learning to speak over it.

Because I had someone beside me who didn’t treat my fear like weakness.

I shifted a little closer to Brandon, letting his arms fully encircle me again. “Thank you,” I murmured.

“For what?”

“For listening. For not taking it personally. For making me feel safe enough to say it.”

His voice was soft against my hair. “Always.”

I smiled and let the quiet return, this time without the weight of unsaid things pressing against my ribs. My body felt lighter somehow. Or maybe it was my soul. Maybe it was both.

And for the first time in days, I felt sleep begin to pull at me—not from exhaustion, but from peace.

I was safe. Our baby was safe.

And our story was just beginning—with honesty, healing, and the kind of love that grew not in fireworks, but in the steady glow of shared truth.