11. Freya

11

Freya

T he room Henry gave me sprawled out like an overgrown mansion of its own. High ceilings stretched above me, adorned with intricate moldings and a chandelier that looked more like a cascade of crystal tears. Velvet drapes, heavy and deep burgundy, framed the windows, blocking out most of the daylight and leaving the room in a perpetual twilight.

The bed, a massive four-poster with a canopy of sheer silk, sat in the center like a throne. It was dressed in satin sheets and an absurd amount of pillows. I wondered if anyone ever actually slept there or if it was just for show.

A sitting area occupied one corner, complete with plush armchairs and a coffee table bearing a vase of fresh lilies. The scent permeated the room, reminding me of my mother’s garden back home, another place where I had felt trapped despite its beauty.

The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that I doubted anyone ever read. A grand fireplace took up one wall, cold and dark despite the firewood neatly stacked beside it. I could see my reflection in the ornate mirror above it—pale and small in this cavernous space.

I moved towards the windows, pulling back one of the heavy drapes to peer outside. The view was breathtaking: rolling hills, dense forests, and the distant shimmer of a lake. It should have been calming, but all it did was remind me how far I was from freedom.

My fingers brushed against the mahogany desk near the window, covered in writing supplies—fine parchment, ink bottles, quills—all untouched. Who wrote with these? Was this something his grandfather indulged in? Another display piece.

I wandered into the adjoining bathroom. It was almost obscene in its opulence: marble floors, gold fixtures, a clawfoot tub big enough to swim in. There were scented candles placed strategically around it and fluffy white towels monogrammed with Henry's family crest.

Stepping back into the main room, I felt a wave of familiarity wash over me. Despite its grandeur, it was just another gilded cage. Just like my room back home—a place meant to impress others rather than provide comfort for its inhabitant.

I could hear Henry's voice echoing in my head from our argument earlier—how he thought claiming me would solve everything. As if gilded bars could ever make captivity more bearable.

I dropped my bags by the door. The thud echoed in the quiet room, emphasizing the emptiness. At least I didn’t have to share this space with Henry. That was one small mercy in this whole mess.

I moved toward the bed, sinking down onto the soft mattress. Sighing, I leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The ornate light fixture hung above me like a relic from another era, casting soft shadows on the walls. Everything in here screamed permanence, yet all I felt was an urgent need to change.

My gaze wandered back to my bags, still sitting by the door. They were packed hastily with clothes and essentials, as if some part of me had hoped for an escape route that never materialized.

The thought brought a bitter smile to my lips. At least here, in this room that was mine alone, I could pretend for a moment that everything was within my control.

I sat up, the plush bed making the motion feel sluggish. Sighing, I got up and walked over to my bags, dragging them across the room to the foot of the bed.

Unzipping the first bag, I pulled out a few dresses and hung them in the cavernous closet. Each hanger clinked softly against the rod, a hollow sound in the quiet room. The second bag contained more casual clothes—sweaters, jeans, and a few pairs of shoes. I lined them up neatly in the bottom of the closet.

As I unpacked, I tried to ignore the lump forming in my throat. The silence pressed in on me from all sides, making each movement feel exaggerated, each breath too loud. I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

The last bag was filled with personal items—books, a journal, and a framed photo of my parents and me at the lake. I placed it on the nightstand beside the bed, tracing my fingers over their smiling faces. The tears that had been threatening finally broke free, blurring my vision as I tried to blink them away.

I sank back down onto the bed, clutching the photo to my chest. The weight of everything crashed down on me—my engagement to Henry, this suffocating room, and most of all, how trapped I felt. The tears came harder now, each sob shaking my body as I curled up on the mattress.

I hated it here. Hated every ornate detail that screamed opulence but offered no comfort. Hated how this place was supposed to be some kind of reward when it felt more like a prison. Most of all, I hated that Henry thought this was what I wanted—that he could claim me and make everything right with luxury and grandeur.

The tears didn’t stop; they poured out until my throat felt raw and my eyes stung. My cries echoed in the empty room, bouncing off those high ceilings like ghosts mocking me.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. My sobs quieted into soft whimpers as I lay there, staring at nothing in particular. The bed’s softness seemed to swallow me whole as if it were trying to offer some twisted version of comfort.

I hugged myself tighter, feeling small and alone despite being surrounded by so much space and opulence.

I closed my eyes, but Henry's image haunted me. The memory of his touch in the car was seared into my mind. His hands on my skin had ignited something primal, something I loathed myself for feeling. It wasn’t just anger; it was a betrayal by my own body.

Every time I thought about it, a wave of shame crashed over me. I had given in, despite every fiber of my being screaming against it. My body had betrayed me, responding to him when all I wanted was to push him away, to reclaim some semblance of control over my life.

I hated myself for that moment of weakness. Hated how my breath had hitched when his fingers traced along my thigh, how my skin had tingled under his touch. It was the one thing I had left—my autonomy over my own body—and he had taken that too.

I hated him. Hated the way his eyes bore into mine with that mix of possession and desire. Hated how he thought he could claim me with a ceremony and a lavish room. Hated the arrogance in his voice when he spoke to me, as if he knew exactly what I needed.

The more I dwelled on it, the more the anger churned inside me, boiling hot and relentless. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to break something—anything—to make the rage tangible. But all I could do was lie there in the darkness, feeling powerless and small.

Eventually, exhaustion began to creep in, dulling the edges of my fury. My body felt heavy against the soft mattress as if every muscle had given up the fight. The room’s silence became a cocoon, wrapping around me and pulling me under.

Sleep came slowly at first, a hesitant drift into oblivion. But soon enough, it engulfed me completely, dragging me away from the torment of my thoughts and into a world where Henry couldn’t reach me.

For now, at least, there was peace in unconsciousness.

I woke up with the sun filtering through the heavy curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. The light told me it was late morning, and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it—10:30 AM.

My head felt heavy, a dull ache reminding me of last night’s tears. I pushed myself up, feeling the plush carpet beneath my feet as I swung my legs off the bed. Determination stirred within me. I needed to do something about my situation.

The attached bathroom beckoned with its promise of hot water and a brief escape from reality. I walked over and pushed open the door.

Inside, the bathroom was an extravagant mix of marble and gold accents. The floor was a polished expanse of cream-colored stone, cool underfoot. A massive mirror stretched across one wall above a double vanity, each sink set into an elegant marble countertop. Gold fixtures gleamed under the light, giving everything an air of opulence that felt almost surreal.

In the corner stood a glass-enclosed shower that looked more like a small room than a stall. It had multiple showerheads—one overhead like rainfall and several along the walls at varying heights. A built-in bench lined one side, made of the same polished marble as the rest of the room.

I stripped and stepped inside and turned on the water, fiddling with the controls until I found the perfect temperature. Steam began to fill the space almost immediately, curling around me like a warm embrace. The sound of water hitting stone was soothing, a temporary lullaby to calm my racing thoughts.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the steam envelop me before stepping under the cascade of hot water from the overhead showerhead. The heat penetrated deep into my muscles, easing away some of the tension that had settled in overnight.

The water felt luxurious against my skin, washing away not just grime but some small measure of my anxiety. For now, in this opulent sanctuary, I allowed myself to just be—if only for a few stolen moments before facing whatever came next.

But even here, surrounded by such luxury, I couldn't shake off the feeling of entrapment entirely. As much as I wanted to lose myself in this temporary escape, I knew it was just that—temporary.

I turned off the shower and stepped out, reaching for a thick, fluffy towel. Wrapping it around myself, I patted my skin dry. As the steam began to dissipate, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back seemed like a stranger—eyes puffy from crying, lips set in a thin line of determination.

"Who are you?" I whispered to the reflection. It didn’t answer back.

I walked back into the bedroom and dressed in casual clothes—jeans and a soft sweater. Comfort over style today. I slipped on a pair of flats and headed downstairs.

The house felt eerily quiet, each step echoing slightly in the spacious halls. No signs of life, no sounds of movement. Just me and my thoughts.

I wandered into the living room. It was grand yet somehow managed to feel cozy. The room stretched wide with high ceilings adorned with intricate moldings. A chandelier hung from above, casting soft light over the space. Large windows let in natural light, making the room feel even more expansive.

A massive fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle adorned with elegant vases and framed photographs that seemed to belong to another life, kind of like the one in my room. Plush sofas and armchairs were arranged in a way that invited conversation, their rich fabrics adding a touch of warmth to the otherwise stately decor.

Bookshelves lined another wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that hinted at years of accumulated knowledge and history. A grand piano sat in one corner, its glossy surface reflecting the room's details like a dark mirror.

I moved to one of the sofas and sank into it, feeling its softness envelop me. My gaze drifted to the piano, and I wondered how many times someone had played it while others gathered around to listen. Moments like those seemed so far removed from my current reality.

The silence continued to stretch, thick and almost tangible. I leaned back against the cushions, letting out a slow breath. Here in this quiet living room, surrounded by elegance and history, I felt both small and out of place.

For now, I was alone with my thoughts—a momentary pause before whatever came next in this unexpected journey.

The scent of bell peppers and onions wafted through the air, making my mouth water. I sat up, drawn by the tantalizing aroma, and followed it into the kitchen. As I entered, I stopped short, startled to see an older woman with greying hair, tan skin, and dark eyes moving gracefully around the stove.

"Oh, Miss Freya," she said, her voice thick with an accent I couldn't quite place. "Mr. Henry told me to expect you. You like omelettes for breakfast, sì?"

"Who… who are you?" I asked, my voice catching slightly.

"My name is Carmen," she replied, smiling warmly. "I cook for Mr. Henry. He says you like omelettes with bell peppers, onions, and lots of cheese, sì? No mushrooms."

"Uh, yes." I nodded once and tentatively sat at the bar. I wondered how he could know that.

Carmen's movements were efficient and practiced as she continued to cook. The sizzle of vegetables hitting the hot pan filled the room with a comforting sound.

"He pay attention to details," Carmen said without looking up from her work. "Not many men do."

I watched her for a moment, the ease with which she handled everything reminding me of my own mother. A pang of homesickness hit me unexpectedly.

Carmen slid the omelette onto a plate and placed it in front of me. The vibrant colors of the bell peppers and onions contrasted beautifully with the golden eggs.

"Enjoy," she said with a satisfied nod.

I picked up a fork and took a bite. The flavors melded perfectly—the sweetness of the bell peppers balanced by the sharpness of the cheese.

"It's delicious," I murmured between bites.

Carmen beamed at me as if I'd just given her the highest compliment in the world. "Good! Food should always make you feel better."

I couldn't help but smile back at her warmth and sincerity. For a moment, amidst all the chaos in my life, there was a small island of peace in this kitchen with Carmen's cooking and kind words.

As I ate, Carmen busied herself cleaning up, humming softly to herself. It was a simple scene but one that brought a surprising amount of comfort.

When I finished the last bite of the omelette, I stood up, feeling a little more grounded than before. Carmen moved swiftly, taking my plate with a practiced ease.

"Mr. Henry told me to tell you that you have free rein of the house except the west wing," she said as she began washing the dish by hand.

"Why?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"He wouldn't say, and I don't question him." Carmen scrubbed the plate with a kind of methodical precision. "But, now that you're fed, it's my time to go. I'll be back to cook dinner. Is there anything else you need?"

I shook my head, my gaze drifting towards the west wing. What could Henry possibly be hiding there?

Carmen dried her hands on a towel and gave me one last warm smile before leaving through the side door. The kitchen felt empty without her bustling presence, and the silence crept back in.

I wandered over to the kitchen window and looked out at the expansive grounds. The gardens were meticulously maintained, a riot of colors that seemed almost too perfect. But my thoughts kept circling back to the forbidden west wing.

What could be so secret that I wasn't allowed to see it?

What was Henry hiding?