The Billionaire's Unchosen

It wasn't what she expected. She didn't want the best, but she had expected better. She never wanted this, the union, the family and especially him. She had admired him from afar but never dreamt of it being this close. Now she's living the dream, or better still, the nightmare.

It had been two months since Freja got married to Clinton. It has been a rollercoaster of emotions for Freja; in all, it hasn't been so good. She never thought a day would come when she walked the corridors of her now late sister without hearing her voice or seeing her very similar face.

Today has been like other days, boring and highly uneventful. The mansion was as cold as ever, and the corridors were colder than ever. Freja felt it more than ever, maybe it wasn't just because of the weather. Today, as every other day has been since this journey began, has been highlighted by Clinton's thunderous voice tearing through the empty corridors. His voice sent cold shivers down Freja's spine.

Freja Aron. Now popularly known by people, especially the media, as Freja Greenwood, tiptoed through the vast corridor, the sound of her soft steps echoed through the large corridor down to the dining room, the only sound that could be heard in the rather quiet building. She held a tray in her hand, heading to the dining room. On it was Clinton's breakfast, five slices of bread, a jar of Nutella and a hot cup of coffee.

Her hands trembled terribly as she tried to balance the plates and cups. She walked fast, nearly tripping over herself as she rushed to avoid another round of yells from Clinton. The ceramic plates and mugs clinked against each other with each careless sway of her hands. She finally reached the dining room. 

"Sorry, I am late, the coffee maker delayed m—" she tried to explain as she dropped the tray down before Clinton, nearly spilling the tea over him.

"Cut it, you clumsy fool," Clinton spat out as he shifted his chair back from the bear casualty.

Clinton sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table. A newspaper stood open in front of him and a laptop, turned on to his right side. His face was as unreadable as always while his presence dominated the room. His perfume filled the air, and it held the strong aura of a man who had everything in his life planned out. 

But he never saw a day like this coming; he never saw a day where he would have to share the same roof with his wife, his late wife's twin sister. Freya's death had taken him by surprise, but his marriage to Freja a year later just added salt to his already burning wound. To him, he had no use for her, save for her cooking and cleaning.

"I'm so sorry, here's your breakfast, sir," she said with a bow.

He glanced down at the tray before him, then back up at her face. "I said no toast."

Freja had completely forgotten. She had already put the bread in the toaster before he ordered her to serve him bread without toast. With all the rush, she just threw it in the tray and brought it to him. 

She wiped sweat off her head with the back of her palms as her voice came out shaky. "I-I’m sorry. I’ll change it."

Clinton scoffed and pushed the tray away towards her as if it offended him. The force he used tumbled the teacup, spilling the tea everywhere and even on Freja. 

"What exactly can you do right?!" He yelled at her.

"Clint—" Freja made to say as she winced at the pain on her leg from the hot tea that spilled on her.

"Don't you dare!" He barked at her, slamming the newspaper down with force.

"I'm so—sorry, but you spilled the hot tea on me and I did nothing wrong," she complained.

"You did nothing wrong?! How useless can you really be? You deserve more than just hot tea. From the looks of things, you deserve a hot slap!" He yelled, pushing the table forward as he got up with force. The action caused the tipped-over mug to roll down from the table.

"Ohhh!!!" Freja yelled as she lunged forward in an attempt to catch it but she couldn't. The mug crashed down on the marble floor, shattering into pieces and piercing Freja's leg too, as she stood near where it fell.

"Clinton!" She yelled. She crouched down and grabbed her leg as tears rolled down her face.

Clinton just stood still and looked down on her and the mess with disgust. He shook his head. "You should be ashamed of yourself," he spat out. "Your mother would be ashamed of you. Freya, your sister, my beloved wife, would be ashamed of you," he continued vilely.

Freja looked up with pain in her eyes as she stared at his own cold eyes. "How could you say that, Clinton. I have tried my best since I came to this how and you don't make it easier for me. Why are you treating me this way, Clinton? I never asked for this, and you know it." She broke down in tears as she spoke. The tears flowed more from his actions and words than the pain in her leg; she nearly didn't feel it again.

"Save all your crap for anyone that cares. When you are done with this nonsense on your face," he said, pointing at her tears. "You clean up this mess and ensure you feed Phillip. Don't fuck it up this time! I hope I'm clear?" He yelled. 

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the dining room. He disappeared inside and reappeared a few minutes later in different attire. Then, without another word or glance at Freja, he walked out of the apartment. 

Freja remained crouched down on the ground. She held her leg tightly and wept her eyes out. She didn't see him leave, but she heard the sound of the car as Clinton maneuvered his way out of the apartment. She didn't need him to tell her, she knew he wouldn't be back till night.

After a while, she slowly reached for the small glass on her leg. "Ouch," she squealed as she pulled it out in one swift move. Tears rolled from her eyes freely, and she didn't even bother to gather herself together. She slowly eased herself to the ground, wrapping her hands around her legs as she thought over his words.

Then she thought back to how it all started, how she got herself in this mess. Sh

e could remember everything like it was just yesterday.