25. Freya

25

Freya

I walked beside Henry, the late morning air heavy with unsaid words. Each step felt like a slow march to an unknown fate. My mind spun with questions, regrets, and a thousand half-formed thoughts. I kept glancing at him from the corner of my eye, searching for any sign that he might break this unbearable silence.

His face remained a stone mask, jaw clenched tight. The moonlight cast sharp shadows across his features, making him look even more distant and unreachable. I wished he would yell at me, accuse me of something, anything to shatter this oppressive quiet.

We reached his car, and he opened the door for me without a word. I hesitated for a moment, hoping he'd say something—anything—that might give me a clue about what he was thinking. But he simply waited, eyes fixed on some distant point beyond my shoulder.

I slid into the passenger seat, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the seatbelt. He got in on his side and started the engine. The hum of the car filled the void between us, but it did nothing to ease the tension.

"Henry," I began, my voice barely above a whisper. "Can we talk about?—"

He cut me off with a sharp glance, eyes burning with unspoken fury. But still, he said nothing.

The silence grew thicker, suffocating. My mind screamed for him to lash out, to give me something tangible to hold on to. Anything was better than this torturous quiet.

But he didn't move. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. The car idled in the parking lot, a beast of metal and silence.

My eyes filled with water, blurring the dashboard in front of me. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears. The memory of my mother’s voice echoed in my mind. Did I ruin this? Was she right? Had I destroyed everything with Henry?

I glanced down at my hand resting on my lap. My knuckles were already swollen from where I punched Dan. The skin was an angry red, throbbing with each beat of my heart. He deserved it, though. His smug face and those slimy words he spewed—I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

The sting in my hand was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. The silence between Henry and me was louder than any argument we could have had. I wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, but I knew it would be pointless. He was locked away somewhere deep inside himself, and I didn’t have the key.

"Henry," I tried again, my voice cracking. "Please... can we talk?"

His eyes flickered toward me for a split second before returning to the windshield. His jaw tightened even more, if that was possible.

The tears spilled over despite my efforts to keep them at bay. I turned away from him, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window. The world outside seemed so far away, a distant place where problems like ours didn’t exist.

I felt like I was drowning in a sea of regrets and unanswered questions. How had we ended up here? How had everything gone so wrong so fast?

My hand fell into my lap again, fingers curling into a fist around the pain.

"I'm going to kill him," Henry said quietly, his voice a dangerous calm that sent chills down my spine.

"You can't—" I started, but he cut me off.

"You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do." His words snapped through the air like a whip. He let out a slow breath, trying to reign in his fury. "When Kennedy did that to my sister, I was ready to kill him too. It affected her inheritance. My uncle was ready to strip the team from her. Luckily, Kennedy came to his senses, but… I doubt Dan is going to make this right. Which means I have an obligation to. And even so, the internet is forever. And that's something they're both going to have to live with."

His words were like a slap to my face, the sting of them sharper than anything physical. The gravity of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks.

"Is this going to affect…" My voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"What?" His eyes narrowed as he turned toward me.

"My mother says you don't want to get married," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "That this scandal ruined everything."

"And you want to be sure of that?" He sneered, his tone dripping with sarcasm and something else—something darker. "Tell me, Freya, did you plan for this? Was this done on purpose?"

The accusation hung in the air between us like a noxious cloud. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to process what he had just said. Did he really think I would sabotage us?

"Plan for this? Are you serious?" I felt anger rising within me, battling the hurt and confusion. "Why would I want to ruin everything between us?"

"Why indeed," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I clenched my fists in frustration. The pain in my knuckles seemed insignificant compared to the emotional turmoil inside me. "You think I wanted those pictures out there? That I wanted this mess?"

He looked away, his jaw tightening again. Silence stretched between us once more, thick and suffocating.

I couldn't stand it anymore. "Henry," I said, my voice shaking with emotion. "We need to talk about this, really talk."

He remained silent for a moment longer before finally speaking again. "There's nothing more to say right now." His voice was cold, distant.

I turned back toward the window, feeling a mixture of anger and despair settle over me like a heavy cloak. The road ahead seemed long and uncertain, and for the first time, I wasn't sure if we could navigate it together.

I wasn't going to let him dictate things anymore. The silence, the distance, the way he shut me out—it had to end. I needed answers, even if they weren't the ones I wanted to hear.

"I need to know if I ruined things," I began, my voice steadier than I felt.

He turned to look at me, eyes cold and unyielding. "Of course I'm still going to marry you. I signed a contract, didn't I?"

My mouth dropped open. It shouldn't hurt—his words shouldn't have that power over me—but they did. They cut deeper than any physical wound ever could.

"So, that's all I am to you?" I asked, my voice breaking. "An obligation?"

"What more could you be?" His tone was dismissive, almost mocking. "It's not like I'm anything to you, Freya. Let's not pretend this is more than what it is. My grandfather arranged for us to marry. I'm going to marry you, regardless."

I glanced at him, searching his face for any hint of softness, any sign that he might feel something—anything—for me. "So you're only marrying me because your grandfather told you to?"

"Why else would I marry you?" he asked, eyebrows raised in a challenge. "It's not like there's any love between us. Unless you're going to sit here and tell me you love me?"

I held my breath, my chest aching with emotions I couldn't name. Did I love him? I didn't know what I felt for Henry, but it wasn't the hate I'd thought it was all this time.

"That's what I thought," he said snidely, turning back toward the road ahead. "Nothing has changed."

Except… that wasn't true.

"You're wrong," I murmured, staring at my lap. "Everything has changed."

"What are you?—"

"Last night," I said, lifting my eyes to meet his. "All of it. Every single thing. You're telling me it meant nothing to you?"

"You're telling me it did?" he asked, his voice hard and unyielding.

There it was. The final nail in the coffin.

"I…" My words caught in my throat. I couldn't even begin to explain the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. I reached for the seatbelt, my fingers trembling as I unclicked it. The metal buckle clanged against the door as I pushed it open. "I can't be here."

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice rising with alarm.

I didn't answer. I stepped out of the car, the cold spring air hitting me like a slap to the face. My shoes crunched against the gravel as I started walking away, not knowing where I was going but needing to be anywhere but near him.

"Freya!" His voice called out behind me, but I didn't stop. The wind carried his words away, and with each step, the distance between us grew.

My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing the confusion and hurt inside me. Tears blurred my vision, but I kept walking, driven by an instinctive need to escape.

I heard the car door slam shut and footsteps following me. "Freya, come back here!" Henry's voice was closer now, filled with anger and desperation.

I quickened my pace, ignoring the ache in my legs and the burn in my lungs. All I could think about was putting as much space between us as possible.

He caught up to me, grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him. "What do you think you're doing?" His grip was firm but not painful, his eyes searching mine for answers.

I pulled my arm free, stepping back. "I can't… I can't do this anymore," I whispered, feeling more lost than ever before.

His expression softened for a moment before hardening again. "Running away isn't going to solve anything. Didn’t you tell me that?”

"Maybe not," I said, my voice barely audible over the wind. "But staying here is only making things worse."

He stared at me for a long moment before finally letting out a frustrated sigh. "Fine," he said, turning away and walking back to the car.

I stood there, watching him go, feeling an emptiness settle over me like a heavy fog before turning away. I walked across campus, the familiar pathways of Crestwood stretching out before me. The spring air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, their vibrant colors painting the landscape in shades of pink, yellow, and purple. It was a Saturday, so the usual hustle and bustle of students rushing to classes was absent. Instead, the campus felt almost serene, with only a few groups of friends lounging on the grass or strolling leisurely.

As I made my way past the library, memories of countless late-night study sessions and whispered conversations flooded my mind. The ivy-covered brick buildings stood as silent witnesses to my time here, each one holding its own set of stories and secrets.

I continued down the cobblestone paths, my footsteps echoing softly in the stillness. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their petals drifting lazily to the ground like delicate pink snowflakes. I paused for a moment under one of the trees, watching as a petal landed on my hand before brushing it away.

The farther I walked, the more I felt the weight of recent events lifting from my shoulders. There was something comforting about being back on campus, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of a place that had once been my sanctuary.

Eventually, I found myself standing in front of my old dormitory. The building looked just as it had when I first arrived at Crestwood back in August—red brick walls, tall windows, and a sense of history that seemed to seep from every corner. I hesitated for a moment before pushing open the heavy wooden door and stepping inside.

The lobby was quiet, with only a couple of students lounging on the worn couches or chatting quietly near the bulletin board. I made my way up the staircase, each step bringing me closer to my old room.

When I reached my floor, I couldn't help but smile at the sight of familiar door decorations and posters that adorned the hallway. It felt like stepping back in time, to a period when life had been simpler and my biggest worries had been midterms and term papers.

I stopped in front of what used to be my room and ran my fingers over the nameplate beside the door. Freya.

Me.

I reached into my bag, fingers brushing against the cold metal of my old dorm keys. Pulling them out, I stared at the familiar keychain—a small, worn-out leather tag with Crestwood embossed on it. It felt heavy in my hand, a tangible link to a past that seemed so present now, in this moment.

Taking a deep breath, I slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, revealing the room that had once been mine. Stepping inside, I was hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocked me off my feet.

I hadn't been gone for very long, but it felt like an eternity.

Everything was as I remembered it. The bed against the far wall, the desk cluttered with books and notes, the tiny kitchenette that had seen countless late-night snack runs. It was like coming home after being gone for so long.

And it was mine.

I closed the door behind me and walked over to the bed. The sight of it—rumpled sheets and all—brought tears to my eyes. It was here that I'd spent countless nights dreaming about a future that now seemed so uncertain.

Collapsing onto the bed, I buried my face in the pillow. The tears came then, hot and unstoppable. Sobs wracked my body as I cried out all the frustration, hurt, and confusion that had been building up inside me.

The weight of everything—Henry's coldness, the leaked pictures, this marriage I hadn't even wanted, my own doubts and fears—pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe. I clung to the pillow like it was a lifeline, letting the tears soak into its fabric.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. My sobs quieted to hiccups, then faded away entirely. The room around me blurred as sleep pulled me under, offering a temporary escape from the storm raging inside me.

As I drifted off, one thought lingered in my mind: for now, at least, I was home.