26. Henry

26

Henry

F reya’s silhouette disappeared out of the parking lot, her steps echoing in the stillness. Anger bubbled inside me, mixing with something else—something I refused to name. I clenched my fists, feeling the sting in my knuckles from the earlier fight.

How could she just walk away? Every instinct screamed at me to call her back, but my voice stayed lodged in my throat. She never wanted this marriage, not truly. The pictures had given Richard the perfect ammunition to challenge my inheritance. Clever trick if that was her game.

But then, I remembered how she reacted when she saw the photos. The way her face twisted in horror and betrayal, and how she punched Dan squarely in the jaw without a second thought. Freya wasn’t one to plot behind closed doors; her emotions were raw and exposed for everyone to see.

Still, I accused her. Spat words laced with venom, watching as they tore through her defenses.

Deep down, I knew she was telling the truth. The shame on her face wasn't feigned; it was too real, too painful. And yet, instead of comforting her, I lashed out. The guilt gnawed at my insides like a parasite.

I turned back towards the car and leaned against the door, exhaling sharply. This wasn’t just about inheritance or family honor anymore. Something deeper was at stake, something neither of us understood fully.

I rubbed my knuckles absentmindedly. Freya had been the one to clean them up after I beat Jensen to a pulp—another moment where she saw past my rage and into whatever lay beneath it.

And then I had fucked them up again, this time, with Dan.

Damn it all.

I pushed off from the door and got back inside, slamming the door behind me. Inheritance be damned; this mess needed sorting out, and it wasn't going to happen if we kept tearing each other apart.

My mind replayed our argument, her words echoing in my head. Why was she so worried about messing everything up? It didn't make sense. Shouldn't my assurance that I'd still marry her have relieved her? Instead, it seemed to hurt her more.

I shook my head, frustration boiling over as I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine. The purr of the car did little to soothe my nerves. The drive back home was a blur of streetlights and shadows, my thoughts tangled in a web of confusion and guilt.

When I finally pulled into the driveway, the house loomed in front of me, imposing and empty. I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the facade that had once felt like a fortress. Now, it was just walls and windows—cold, lifeless.

Freya's absence hung heavy in the air as I walked through the front door. The silence was deafening. Every room I passed felt wrong without her presence, like an incomplete puzzle missing its final piece.

I wandered into the living room and sank onto the couch, running a hand through my hair. Her laugh had once filled this space; now it was just an echo in my memory. The tension between us had been palpable from the start, but there were moments—brief flashes—when we connected. When she cleaned my knuckles after I beat Jensen up, I saw a flicker of something genuine in her eyes.

And last night, when she had crawled on top of me…

My cock twitched at the thought of being inside of her.

I had never let anyone command me like that before.

But why did she look so hurt when I said I'd still marry her? That question gnawed at me. She should have been relieved, shouldn't she? Yet there was pain in her eyes, a deep-seated hurt that cut deeper than any words could.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to piece together the fragments of our interactions. The pictures had been a blow to both of us, but there was something more to her reaction—something I couldn't quite grasp.

The house felt foreign now, a hollow shell without Freya's presence. I needed answers, but they seemed just out of reach, slipping through my fingers like sand.

For now, all I could do was sit here in this empty house and wonder where everything went so wrong.

I heard something in the kitchen. The soft clatter of dishes broke the oppressive silence that had settled over the house. I sat up, my body tensing. It was too early for Carmen to be here.

"Carmen?" I called, my voice echoing off the walls. I stood up, heading toward the kitchen. "You don't work Sat?—"

I cut myself off as I stepped through the doorway and saw her. It wasn't Carmen standing there. It was Minka.

Minka stood by the counter, her back to me as she rinsed a glass under the tap. She had that same ethereal presence she always had. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, catching the light just so. Her frame was petite but there was a quiet strength in her posture.

"Minka," I said, trying to mask my surprise.

She turned, her eyes—deep blue like mine—met mine with a calm intensity. "Henry," she greeted, her voice steady but tinged with concern.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"I saw what happened," she said simply, setting the glass on the counter and drying her hands with a towel. "I thought you might need some company."

I frowned. "I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at her lips. "Sure you are."

I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. Minka's presence always had a way of cutting through my defenses, and I wasn’t in the mood for it today.

"How's Freya?" she asked, genuine concern lacing her voice.

I glared at her, the anger still simmering beneath my skin.

"That bad, huh?" she continued, unfazed. "Please tell me you didn't blame her?—"

"Of course I didn't," I snapped, pushing off the doorframe and moving into the kitchen.

"Because this has Richard written all over it," Minka said, following me.

"I know?—"

"Then, where is she?" She placed her hands on her hips, looking up at me with that fierce determination only she could muster.

"She left," I muttered. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Her eyes widened with disbelief. "Henry, she's probably upset, sad, hurt, maybe even scared. I'm assuming Dan is the one?—"

My eyes cut to hers sharply.

"Did you say anything to her?"

I glared at Minka; the tension thickening the air between us.

"Of course, I didn't say anything," I snapped. "I'm not an idiot."

"Really?" Minka's voice rose, her calm demeanor cracking. "Because letting her leave without figuring out where she went sounds pretty idiotic to me."

"You think I wanted this?" My fists clenched at my sides. "She saw those pictures and?—"

"And you blamed her!" She cut me off, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. "Instead of standing by her, you threw accusations. I know you. I'm your sister, remember? Do you have any idea how that feels?"

"You don't know what happened," I shot back, the heat rising in my chest.

"Enlighten me then," she challenged, crossing her arms. "Tell me why you didn't chase after her."

"Because she didn't want me to!" My voice echoed off the kitchen walls. "She walked away, Minka. She made her choice."

"Maybe because she thought you wouldn't believe her," Minka retorted, her tone sharp. "Did you even give her a chance to explain?"

I opened my mouth to respond but found myself hesitating. Had I really given Freya a chance? Or had I been too consumed by my own anger and pride?

"Exactly," she said, reading the silence in my expression. "You were so quick to jump to conclusions."

My jaw tightened. "You don't understand what it's like."

"Don't I?" Her eyes bore into mine. "I know what it's like to feel cornered and misunderstood. And I know what it's like to need someone who will stand by you no matter what. Hell, I know what it feels like when the person you love takes pictures, and when your own family releases them because they want what you were given. If anyone gets it, it's me."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned away from her, trying to steady my breathing.

"You need to find her," Minka continued, softer now but no less insistent. "Talk to her. Listen to her."

"And say what?" I muttered, staring at the floor.

"Say you're sorry," she said simply. "Admit that you were wrong."

The thought of apologizing made my stomach churn. But deep down, I knew she was right.

"If you let this fester," Minka warned, "it will destroy everything."

I nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in.

"And Henry," she added, placing a hand on my arm, "do it for the right reasons. Not just because of the inheritance or because it’s what Papa would have wanted.”

I met her gaze and saw the sincerity there.

"The right reasons?" I asked, incredulity edging my voice. "I already told her I was still going to marry her. What more can I do? If she needs time to figure out what she wants?—"

"And what do you want?" Minka's arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing in challenge.

I opened my mouth to respond, but Minka's glare silenced me before any words could escape.

"Not what Papa wanted for you," she pressed, each word like a jab to my ribs. "Not what you think you should do for the family. What do you want?"

My teeth clenched involuntarily. Did I even know the answer to that question? The idea of wanting something just for myself felt foreign, almost forbidden.

"Do you even know?" Her voice softened, but the words still stung. "Because if you don't, you should figure that out first."

"What do you mean?" I asked, frustration boiling over.

She sighed, the weight of the world in her breath. "Our lawyer called me this morning," she said. "About the pictures, yes, but also about what could happen. I know Richard is making you attend a bullshit meeting about your inheritance after the Jensen fiasco scheduled the same time as your game. He's going to paint you as some angry lunatic with violent tendencies who can't control himself."

I looked away, shame creeping up my spine. The truth was, I was angry—constantly on edge.

"Carrigan says it shouldn't be enough to strip your inheritance," Minka continued. "But not showing up could put it in jeopardy because of a pattern of behavior. I'm assuming you beat the shit out of Dan this morning?"

My jaw ticked, confirming her suspicion without words.

She sighed again, deeper this time. "That'll be part of that behavior too," she said quietly.

I leaned against the counter, feeling the weight of my actions pressing down on me like a vise. Everything was spiraling out of control—my anger, my relationship with Freya, even my grip on what I wanted for myself.

Minka's hand rested on my arm again, grounding me in the moment. "Henry," she said softly but firmly, "you need to decide what you're fighting for here. If it's just for Papa's approval or the family's honor, then you're missing the point."

Her words hung in the air between us, heavy and unavoidable.

And for once, I didn't have a quick retort or a sarcastic comeback.

"Hockey," I said, letting the word hang in the air. "I've always wanted to play hockey."

Minka nodded, understanding in her eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" I turned to her. It felt odd going to my baby sister for advice. She should be the one coming to me.

She met my gaze, waiting.

"What made you get with Kennedy? After everything he did to you?"

Her brows furrowed, and she took a moment before answering. "Levi didn't release those pictures, Henry," she said quietly. "His mom and Richard did. I'm not saying what he did was right by any means, but…" She shrugged. "I guess I understood why he felt he needed to do it. The fact that he was willing to give up playing in the NHL helped too, but… I guess what it really boils down to is love. I loved him."

"That's it?" I asked flatly.

"Don't overcomplicate it," she said. "Love is reason enough. The way I look at it is, if we could survive something like that, if we could come out on the other side stronger, then… then we can survive anything. Granted, if he lays his hands on me in any way I don't like or cheats on me, I'll neuter him myself. But still." She looked at me, cocking her head to the side. "Why? Do you love Freya?"

I scoffed, but my heart wasn't in it. "I don't even know what love is," I muttered.

"Well, it's definitely not something you can control," she pointed out. "In fact, it makes you feel… out of control but perfectly aligned with who you are. I don't know if that makes sense."

"It doesn't," I said flatly.

"I hope you figure it out," she told me, her voice softening. "Because you deserve to be loved, Henry. Even if you are a dick."

I looked away, her words settling into the silence between us.

"So," Minka said, her voice cutting through the silence. "What are you going to do?"

I looked at her, feeling the weight of her question pressing down on me. "I don't know," I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

"I'm here," she said softly, her eyes searching mine. "If you need anything."

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything more. The air between us felt charged, thick with unspoken emotions and unresolved tensions. Without saying another word, I turned and headed towards the west wing, my steps echoing through the empty halls.

The west wing had always been a place of solace for me, a sanctuary within the sprawling estate. As I walked, memories of my grandfather flooded my mind—his stern but kind demeanor, the way he'd always seemed to have an answer for everything. Maybe his study would hold some answers now.

I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. The room smelled of old leather and polished wood, a comforting scent that wrapped around me like a warm blanket. My grandfather's desk stood at the center, an imposing piece of furniture that had seen countless hours of work and contemplation.

I approached it slowly, running my fingers along the smooth surface. Papers were neatly stacked on one side, and an old-fashioned fountain pen lay beside them. I could almost see him sitting there, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on some important document.

Sinking into his leather chair, I let out a sigh. The weight of everything that had happened—the fights with Freya, the tension with my family—pressed down on me. I needed clarity, direction. Something to cut through the fog that clouded my mind.

Something I decided myself.