Her defiance only sharpened his curiosity.
The harder she resisted, the more he wondered about the life she’d led before him.
The address on her passport had led him to an unremarkable neighborhood in Alerith – hardly the backdrop for Hugh Briggs’ daughter.
“Why are you so against this?” he demanded.
“Because I don’t need my dad laughing at me,” Freya said, her voice eerily detached. “If you waltz in and announce we were married for two years before splitting, how do you think he – or his new wife – would see me?”
Her words dragged his thoughts back to last night.
Freya had mentioned her strained family ties, her father’s remarriage.
“Then let me visit your mom,” Kristian offered, shifting tactics.
Freya’s hand froze mid-air, the toner bottle hovering as her expression went blank.
Kristian caught the flicker of something raw – something she quickly smothered.
Just as he opened his mouth to push further, Freya steadied herself, picked up the bottle, and said tonelessly, “My mother is dead.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
Of all the possibilities he’d considered, this wasn’t one of them.
For once, he was at a loss.
“If that’s all,” Freya said, replacing the bottle with deliberate calm, “we’re done here. We’ve got a divorce to file tomorrow.”
Kristian’s gaze sharpened, weighing her mood before settling on a quiet, “Good night.”
“Good night.” Freya’s reply was flat, devoid of warmth.
He didn’t press further. At the door, his broad frame seemed to shrink the room as his hand hovered over the knob. A last glance at Freya – her face unreadable, her posture unchanged – and he left without another word, the latch clicking softly behind him.
Sleep eluded them both.
Kristian twisted in the sheets, the impending divorce a leaden weight on his chest. Worse was the gnawing realization: after two years, he knew nothing of Freya’s life. Not even that her mother was gone.
Freya drowned in nightmares.
Each time, the same cruel finale: her mother’s arms around her, the whisper against her hair – “Mina, don’t be afraid. I’m here.” – before the dream splintered, and those loving hands dissolved like smoke.
She’d scramble, grasping at emptiness.
“Mom! Mom!”
Her child-self and adult-self ran in futile tandem, legs pumping, throat raw, but the silhouette ahead only receded further.
Freya jolted awake, her skin slick with sweat.
She lay still, waiting for her pulse to slow, then dragged herself upright against the headboard.
It had been so long since she’d dreamed of her mother.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was barely three in the morning. She sat up against the headboard, trying to steady herself, then reached for the glass of water on her nightstand. It was empty. With a quiet sigh, she got out of bed and headed downstairs.
She didn’t bother turning on the lights.
Unlike the harsh clarity of daylight, the night felt safer.
In the dark, there were no illusions, no pretenses – just silence stretching endlessly around her.
As she filled a glass with water, her mind remained tangled in the dream.
For two years, she had tried not to think too much about her mother, fearing that dwelling on the past would only bring more pain – that if she ached for her too much, her mother’s spirit might worry for her from wherever she was. But tonight, that buried longing surged to the surface, relentless and unstoppable, breaking free like roots cracking through stone.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice someone else in the dark until she accidentally bumped into him. The sudden contact sent a splash of water spilling – some onto him, some onto herself.
Before she could react, a low, drowsy voice sounded above her. “Why didn’t you turn on the light?”
“It’s unnecessary,” Freya said, her voice as calm as ever, offering no further explanation.
Kristian exhaled and reached for the switch. The room was instantly flooded with light.
Freya flinched, her eyelids squeezing shut against the assault. When she opened them, Kristian stood frozen in the glare, water darkening his shirt.
Kristian, dressed in pajamas that mirrored Freya’s in both hue and style, stood before her with his collar nonchalantly unbuttoned and his hair charmingly tousled. This casual disarray lent him a rugged allure, softening the usual severity that cloaked his features and injecting a spontaneous charm into his presence.
Lost in the nostalgia of the scene, Freya felt a wave of emotions transporting her back to the blissful dawn of their marriage.
Catching her gaze drifting, Kristian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the shimmer of tears that clung delicately to her lashes. The sight caused a tightness in his throat. “Why are you crying?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and confusion.
“I’m not crying!” Freya countered. Despite her attempt to sound strong, her disheveled appearance from being roused from sleep betrayed her true feelings.
Sensing her distress, perhaps about their impending divorce, Kristian suggested, “Now that we’re both awake, why don’t we talk?”
“No,” she replied curtly, her voice firm.
All she wanted was a sip of water before crashing back into bed; exhaustion weighed her down. “I’m heading upstairs to get some more sleep.”
As she turned to leave, Kristian reached out swiftly, capturing her hand in his. He gently relieved her of the glass and guided her toward the dining table.
With a puzzled frown, Freya sat down as he placed the glass before her, his elegant fingers lingering momentarily on the tabletop. His deep, resonant voice broke the silence again. “Why are you up?”
Freya took a deliberate sip of water, her eyes avoiding his probing gaze, leaving his question hanging in the air, unanswered.
“Does this have something to do with the divorce tomorrow?” Kristian pressed on.
Freya paused mid-sip, a furrow of confusion knitting her brows as she tried to grasp his sudden question.
“When I asked you to marry me, it was real – I wanted to build a life with you,” Kristian admitted, breaking the silence that had stretched between them.
His gaze, usually distant and unattached upon waking, was now intense and focused solely on her. “I honestly wanted forever with you. I just never anticipated that Ashley had her own hidden motives for leaving.”
Setting down her now-empty glass with a soft clink, Freya’s voice carried a note of cool detachment. “Yes, I know.”
Before Ashley’s unsettling phone call, Kristian had been nothing short of considerate. He had honored Freya’s desire to avoid a lavish wedding and the scrutiny of a public announcement, seamlessly handling the intricacies of their quiet union.
He had always found ways to uplift her, ensuring she never felt overshadowed by the glaring differences in their social standings.
Freya had been convinced she’d made the right choice in him.
But Ashley’s call had shattered her happy life.
“Freya.” Kristian’s voice softened, a familiar warmth weaving through his words as he spoke her name.
She didn’t challenge him, her thoughts perhaps wandering to dreams of her mother, lost in the nostalgia of their earlier days, or maybe it was just the late hour clouding her judgment.
She responded instinctively, her tone laden with the weight of unspoken thoughts, “Hmm?”
“I apologize.” The words were simple, but Kristian felt each one acutely, as if the very sight of her tears was a knife twisting in his heart.
Freya’s eyes met Kristian’s as she muttered three words, “I accept it.”
Kristian’s heart sank, a void opening within him as the stark reality settled.
Her words, so clinical and detached, brought a resurgence of profound loss that he thought he had managed to keep at bay.
“Once the divorce is final, I hope we can go back to being strangers,” Freya went on, her gaze unwavering. “Even if fate throws us together, let’s just pass by like we’ve never known each other.”
As she spoke, her mind wandered to the future of the company she was bound to inherit.
.
.
.
The Briggs Group wasn’t just her father’s legacy; her mother had poured her soul into it as well.
With both the Briggs and Shaw Groups being titans in their fields, she was adamant that their personal history shouldn’t taint potential collaborations.
Kristian’s eyes darkened, a mix of pain and concern flickering through them as he nodded slowly. “Fine, I’ll go along with that,” he conceded, his voice thick with emotion. “But you need to promise me something first.”
Freya’s brow furrowed slightly. “What is it?”
He hesitated, his heart heavy at the mere thought. “If you find someone new…” The words choked in his throat, the images of her smiling softly in another’s embrace, perhaps even starting a family, weighed him down unbearably.
Freya inquired softly, yet firmly, “What?”
“If you find someone else,” Kristian replied, his tone laced with concern, “make sure to register your assets before marriage.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.