Chapter 41

FREYA'S POV

The golden hour had just passed, leaving behind a soft, honeyed glow that filtered through the expansive glass walls of the banquet hall. From my place near the entrance, I watched as the final touches were being placed—florists adjusting centerpieces, staff setting wine glasses at perfect angles, strings of lights humming softly above us like stars caught mid-breath.

It was magical. The way everything shimmered with purpose. The elegance wasn’t ostentatious—it was intentional, dignified. Gerald Lefevre had spared no expense for tonight’s event, and it showed. Every detail was a reflection of legacy, wealth, and quiet power.

I walked slowly along the edge of the room, admiring the crisp table linens and fresh hydrangeas. Candlelight flickered in ornate glass holders, adding a warmth to the otherwise formal atmosphere. The scent of roses and expensive perfume floated in the air, blending with the savory promise of whatever was cooking in the kitchens.

“Taking it all in?” came Brandon’s voice behind me.

I turned and met his gaze, his tie already slightly loosened, as if the weight of the evening hadn't touched him yet. He looked calm, but I knew better. There was always a flicker of intensity just beneath his surface—tonight it smoldered.

“I am,” I said with a small smile, smoothing down the soft fabric of my dress. “It’s beautiful. Everything’s… surreal.”

He stepped closer, his eyes gentle. “Are you ready?”

I knew what he meant. Not for the party. Not for the sea of people and their thin smiles. He meant the moment.

I nodded, heart thrumming softly against my ribs. “I’m ready.”

As the first guests began to arrive, the hum of conversation rose around us. Tuxedos, gowns, champagne flutes—everyone looked effortlessly polished, their smiles practiced, their eyes constantly scanning. I clung lightly to Brandon’s arm as we made the initial rounds, exchanging pleasantries and polite nods. I could feel the heat of whispers brushing my back, the speculative glances that followed us across the room. I didn’t flinch. Let them talk.

We had something they didn’t.

About forty minutes in, Gerald stood from his seat at the center table, tapping his glass with practiced authority. The room quieted instantly. A hush of reverence fell as he rose to his full height—stoic, silver-haired, with an air that could silence a room simply by existing.

“My dear family, friends, and esteemed shareholders,” he began, voice clear and commanding, “I thank you for gracing us with your presence tonight.”

I glanced around. All eyes were locked on him.

“This evening is not merely a celebration of professional excellence, but of personal strength—the kind that binds generations together and preserves legacy.” He turned slightly, his eyes softening as they landed on the woman seated beside him. “First, I’d like to recognize my wife, Stella Lefevre, without whom none of this—none of me—would have stood firm.”

Polite applause swept the room.

He continued. “My first son, Alexander Lefevre, whose dedication to this company has remained unwavering, and his son, my grandson, Bryan Lefevre, present tonight with his wife Rachelle.”

Bryan gave a small wave from across the room. Rachelle smiled, thinly. Alexander looked pleased, in his own stoic way.

Then Gerald turned to us.

“And of course, my second son, Brandon Lefevre… and his wife—the newest addition to this family, Freya Lefevre.”

All heads turned. A spotlight might as well have fallen over us. I offered a small nod, hiding the sudden flutter in my stomach.

Gerald lifted his glass. “To legacy. To family. To the future.”

We all raised our glasses.

But before Gerald could sit, Brandon shifted beside me. He cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“If I may,” he said.

There was a murmur, curious and hushed. Gerald paused, then gestured for him to continue.

Brandon stepped up onto the small platform where the microphone stood. His hand brushed mine before he ascended. I took in a breath, steadying myself.

He smiled faintly, scanning the room.

“I know this evening was meant to recognize the company’s milestones,” he began, “but there’s another kind of milestone I’d like to share.”

The air thickened with anticipation.

He reached a hand toward me and I walked to his side. He slipped his arm around my waist, gently, securely.

“I’m proud to announce,” Brandon said, his voice unwavering, “that my wife and I are expecting our first child.”

The room froze. I swear time hung there for a heartbeat too long.

Gasps, followed by a collective hum of surprise, rose like a sudden wave.

I glanced toward the side where Bryan and Rachelle were seated. Bryan’s mouth had fallen open slightly, brows drawn in shock. Rachelle didn’t blink—her expression frozen, lips parted, eyes slightly wide.

Alexander, seated beside them, looked as though someone had just spilled wine on his ledger. His expression soured.

But Brandon wasn’t finished.

“This will be the first legitimate grandchild of the Lefevre family,” he added with calm precision, eyes flicking briefly toward his brother.

And that—that—was the blow that landed.

The room erupted into applause. Some clapped hesitantly at first, not quite sure how to respond to a public jab dressed in celebration. But Gerald? He beamed. Even Stella smiled, lifting her glass again. Their pride was unmistakable.

Brandon leaned in slightly, whispering into my ear, “That should answer the question of whether I was ever going to play nice.”

I almost laughed—but instead, I simply smiled as we descended the steps together, hands still locked.

We were immediately swarmed with congratulations—board members, family friends, a few PR executives. They shook Brandon’s hand and offered me warm congratulations, some sincere, some laced with cautious curiosity.

But I kept my eyes steady, my posture calm.

Let them see what they wanted. All I cared about was standing next to the man who stood beside me.

Eventually, the attention shifted elsewhere. But as we returned to our table, I felt the weight of three sets of eyes on us.

Bryan. Rachelle. Alexander.

They hadn’t clapped. They hadn’t moved.

Good.

Let them stew.

The baby growing inside me deserved to be celebrated—not whispered about in corners, not dismissed because of old rivalries or backroom politics. This moment wasn’t just a celebration—it was a line in the sand. A new chapter. Our chapter.

As the music started up and the rest of the room returned to polite laughter and champagne, I sat with Brandon’s hand in mine, feeling a sense of strength rise inside me.

They didn’t have to like it.

But they’d have to live with it.