15. Freya

15

Freya

I stood in the hallway outside the office, the heavy oak door closed behind me. My skin still tingled with the remnants of our encounter, every nerve ending singing with a sensation I couldn't shake off. I hated myself for giving in, but the pleasure that coursed through my veins was undeniable.

It had been Henry's grandfather's office—ornate, filled with relics of another time, and yet, it felt like it was made for us in that moment. His hands had moved over my body with an urgency that matched my own. The way he touched me, the way he felt… it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.

Even Dan.

Dan had been gentle, loving. But Henry—Henry was something else entirely. His touch was possessive, commanding, as if he was claiming every inch of me for himself. It made me feel alive in a way that scared me, yet I craved it.

The guilt settled in like a heavy fog. Dan didn't deserve to be compared to Henry. Dan had been kind and thoughtful, everything Henry wasn't. But thinking about Dan now felt like a betrayal. A betrayal not just to him but to myself and what we once had.

I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, trying to clear my thoughts. Why did I let Henry get under my skin like this? Why did I allow myself to be so weak?

I took a deep breath and turned away from the door, trying to gather myself. No one could know how much I enjoyed it. Hell, I didn't even like thinking about it.

I had to keep up appearances, maintain control over my emotions and my actions. Letting anyone see how deeply affected I was would give them power over me—a power I couldn't afford to lose.

But even as I walked away from the office, the memory of his touch lingered on my skin like a brand, a reminder of what I had felt and what I could never admit out loud.

The hallway stretched out before me like a path to redemption or ruin; either way, there was no turning back now.

The manor was a labyrinth, but I refused to ask for help. After fifteen minutes of floundering, I finally managed to make it back down a familiar hallway.

I slipped into my room, closing the door softly behind me. The walls seemed to close in, a cocoon of silence that should have brought comfort but instead felt suffocating. My desk sat by the window, scattered with notes and textbooks, a stark reminder of the responsibilities I’d been neglecting.

Sinking into the chair, I pulled out my laptop and opened a blank document. The essay was due in three days—a comparative analysis of Gothic literature’s influence on modern storytelling. Normally, this would have excited me, but now it felt like an insurmountable task.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. I stared at the blinking cursor as if it held the answers to my tangled thoughts. But no matter how hard I tried to focus, my mind kept drifting back to Henry.

His eyes had haunted me since the Imprinting ceremony, full of... Possession? Desire? It was hard to pinpoint, but it lingered in my thoughts like a stubborn stain. Why did he have such a hold on me? And why did I let him?

I shook my head and forced myself to type out a few words.

Gothic literature often explores themes of isolation and fear.

My own sense of isolation was palpable. Even surrounded by people, I felt alone. No one understood what it was like to be trapped in an engagement you didn’t want. No one knew the internal battle I fought every day just to keep my composure.

Authors like Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe delved into the human psyche...

I couldn't help but think about Henry's psyche. What drove him? Was it just power and control? Or was there something deeper that he hid from everyone else?

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Concentration eluded me like a mirage in the desert. The words on the screen blurred together until they were nothing more than meaningless symbols.

Frustrated, I pushed away from the desk and stood up. The room felt too small, too confining. I paced back and forth, trying to shake off the thoughts that clung to me like shadows.

Why couldn't I just focus? Why did everything always come back to him?

I glanced at my bookshelf, hoping for inspiration or distraction. Rows of spines lined up neatly, worlds contained within each cover. If only escaping into those worlds were as easy as opening a book.

But no matter how many pages I turned or how many words I wrote, reality would always pull me back. And Henry... Henry was an undeniable part of that reality.

Taking a deep breath, I returned to my desk and stared at the screen once more.

These works often reflect societal anxieties...

Maybe that's what this was—anxiety over a future I had no control over. But recognizing it didn't make it any easier to handle.

With renewed determination, I forced myself to type another sentence, even if each word felt like lifting a weight far too heavy for me to bear.

There was a gentle knock on the door. I paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Miss Freya?" Carmen's tentative voice came from the other side.

I sighed, pushing away from the desk and walking over to open the door. Carmen stood there, looking up at me with concern etched on her face.

"Mr. Mathers wants you at dinner," she said, her voice soft but insistent.

I shook my head, my resolve hardening. "Thanks, Carmen, but I'm not hungry."

As I moved to close the door, her eyes widened in surprise. "But, Miss Freya, you must attend."

My grip on the door tightened. "I don't have to do anything," I replied firmly. I closed the door before she could respond further.

Standing there, staring at the closed door, I felt a surge of defiance. This was the closest thing to control I had left, and I wasn't about to give that up.

I returned to my desk, determined to get back to my essay. The words on the screen stared back at me, daring me to continue. I took a deep breath and began typing again.

These works often reflect societal anxieties and the human condition, exploring themes of fear, isolation, and the unknown.

As I delved deeper into the intricacies of Gothic literature, something shifted inside me. The rhythm of my typing became steady, almost hypnotic. The act of writing provided a brief escape from the chaos of my thoughts. Each word I typed felt like a step away from the turmoil that Henry brought into my life.

Shelley's "Frankenstein" delves into the consequences of man's ambition and the loneliness that accompanies it...

The more I wrote, the more immersed I became. The characters and themes began to weave together in my mind, creating a tapestry of ideas that felt both distant and intimately familiar.

Poe's works often explore the darker aspects of human nature, drawing readers into a world where reality blurs with madness...

I lost track of time as I typed furiously, my fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose. For a moment, everything else faded away—the engagement, Henry's touch, the oppressive weight of expectations. It was just me and my words.

Then came the pounding on the door.

It was loud, insistent—not like Carmen's earlier gentle knock. My heart skipped a beat as I froze in place, hands hovering over the keyboard.

"Freya! Open up!"

Henry's voice was unmistakable. The authority in his tone left no room for defiance. My pulse quickened as irritation surged through me. Why couldn't he leave me alone for even a moment?

I stood up slowly, bracing myself for whatever confrontation lay ahead. Crossing the room felt like wading through thick fog, each step heavy with anticipation.

When I opened the door, Henry stood there, his expression full of fury.

"We need to talk," he said without preamble.

"Do we?" I replied coolly, crossing my arms over my chest.

His jaw tightened. "Yes. Now."

I matched his stare, refusing to back down. "I'm not going to dinner, Henry."

"You don't have a choice," he growled, stepping closer. The space between us felt charged, like the air before a lightning strike.

"I always have a choice," I shot back, my voice rising. "And I choose not to play your games tonight."

His eyes narrowed. "This isn't a game, Freya. This is about our future."

"Our future?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "There is no 'our future.' This engagement—this entire arrangement—it's all a joke!"

He took another step forward, his presence overwhelming. "You don't understand what's at stake here."

"Oh, I understand perfectly," I countered, meeting his gaze with unwavering determination. "You think you can control me, make me bend to your will. But I'm not some pawn in your grand scheme."

"You're being unreasonable," he snapped, frustration evident in his tone.

"Unreasonable?" My voice dripped with incredulity. "What's unreasonable is you expecting me to just fall in line and accept this... this prison you've created for me!"

Henry's face hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening. "This is bigger than both of us, Freya. There are obligations?—"

"Screw your obligations!" I interrupted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "I won't be forced into something I don't want."

He clenched his fists at his sides, struggling to keep his composure. "You think you have a choice? You think walking away will solve anything?"

"Yes!" I shouted, feeling the weight of my own defiance. "Because at least I'll be free from you!"

For a moment, the silence between us was deafening. His eyes bore into mine, and for an instant, I thought I saw something flicker there—hurt? Anger? It was hard to tell.

"You don't know what you're saying," he finally muttered through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm saying," I replied coldly. "I'm done being your puppet."

Henry's expression darkened further, and for a moment, it seemed like he might explode. But instead, he took a deep breath and stepped back.

"You can starve for all I care," Henry spat, turning on his heel and storming down the hallway.

I slammed the door behind him with a force that made the walls tremble. My chest heaved, the anger boiling inside me like a cauldron on the verge of overflowing. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision, but I blinked them back fiercely. Crying would mean he'd won, and I refused to give him that satisfaction.

I walked back to my desk and sank into the chair. The screen glared at me, the essay half-written and mocking. The words seemed foreign, as if someone else had typed them. I tried to pick up where I'd left off, but my thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.

With a sigh, I closed my laptop and leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment. The silence of the room pressed in on me, heavy and oppressive. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the turmoil within me.

After a few moments, I opened my eyes and scanned the bookshelf. My gaze landed on an old favorite— Wuthering Heights . The worn spine felt familiar in my hands as I pulled it from the shelf and settled back into my chair.

The words of Emily Bront? were supposed to offer solace, an escape into a world where someone else's problems overshadowed mine. But as I read, my mind kept drifting back to Henry and his infuriating arrogance.

Each page felt like wading through quicksand; the more I tried to focus, the more elusive it became. My thoughts were like unruly children, refusing to sit still or follow any semblance of order.

I read the same sentence three times before giving up. Slamming the book shut with a frustrated sigh, I tossed it onto the desk and buried my face in my hands.

Why did everything have to be so complicated? Why couldn't there be an easy way out?

I let out a slow breath and lifted my head. The room seemed darker somehow, shadows creeping in from every corner. But I wouldn't let them consume me. Not tonight.

Determined not to dwell on what I couldn't change, I picked up Wuthering Heights again and forced myself to read one page at a time. Even if it felt impossible now, I knew that eventually, the words would weave their magic around me and offer a brief respite from reality.

For now, that had to be enough.

My stomach growled, a low rumble that echoed in the silent room. I tried to ignore it, but the hunger gnawed at me, relentless and insistent. I glanced at the clock; it was late, well past dinnertime. With a resigned sigh, I pushed myself up from the desk and decided to venture downstairs.

The hallway was dimly lit, shadows stretching and shifting with each step I took. My bare feet made no sound on the cool marble floors as I navigated the familiar labyrinth of corridors. The kitchen door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the darkened hall.

I peeked inside and saw Carmen wiping down the counters, her movements efficient and practiced. She looked up as I entered, her eyes widening in surprise.

“You can’t be here, Miss Freya,” she whispered urgently, glancing around as if expecting Henry to appear at any moment. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“I know,” I replied, my voice low. “I know. I’m just…”

“Hungry?” she asked, her expression softening with understanding.

I nodded, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over me.

Carmen sighed and set down her cloth. She moved to the fridge and pulled out some leftovers, her movements deliberate and unhurried as she began to heat them up. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of warm food, making my stomach growl even louder.

As she worked, Carmen glanced over at me. “Mr. Mathers… Henry,” she corrected herself, “he’s not an easy man to understand.”

I looked at her, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “When he was a child, he was different. Kinder. But after his parents passed away, something changed in him. He felt he had to take on responsibilities too soon.” Her eyes were distant as she spoke, lost in memories. "He thought the world of his grandfather. And when he died, so did a piece of Henry. All three deaths were unexpected and tragic. You must understand."

I blinked, absorbing her words. I hadn’t known that about Henry’s past. It cast him in a different light—one that didn’t entirely excuse his behavior but made it more understandable.

Carmen set a plate of steaming food in front of me and offered a small smile. “Try to see beyond his anger and arrogance,” she said softly. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.

“Good night, Miss Freya,” Carmen said quietly before turning back to her cleaning tasks.

“Good night,” I whispered back as I sat down with my meal.

The warmth of the food was comforting as I took my first bite. The kitchen seemed quieter now; the tension easing slightly with each mouthful I swallowed.

But Henry's ghost — the Henry he could have been if he hadn't been surrounded by tragedy — haunted me even so.