Alistair's words had barely left his lips when Mr. Williams smiled knowingly and asked, "Have you spoken to Soren about this? What did he say? You know Elina's been wanting to meet him for years. She adores that boy. But Soren's always preferred solitude, never gave her the chance to even speak. What did he say, Alistair?"
Alistair's mind flashed back to that conversation with Soren—his icy refusal, his eyes sharp with finality. But masking it with a practiced smile, Alistair replied lightly, "Not yet. You know how busy he is. Running that empire keeps him away from home most days. But I've asked him to come. I'll speak to him soon."
Mr. Williams chuckled softly. "Isn't Soren still not the CEO of Kingsley Group? I remember you once said you'd pass the mantle to him on your birthday this year."
Alistair's smile faltered just a fraction, shadows brushing his features, but he kept his voice steady. "Yes, I will. On my birthday, I'll make it official. He'll run Kingsley Group alongside his own companies. It's time."
The two men continued talking, laughter and plans echoing between sips of expensive whiskey.
Elsewhere in the house, Eleanor stood silent, her brow creased with worry. She knew Soren too well—knew his stubborn heart would never accept marriage so easily. But she also knew her husband. And Alistair Kingsley never gave up on something he wanted.
On the first floor, hidden behind a corridor, Tristan stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The anger in his eyes was uncontainable.
He was the eldest. The first-born. Yet it was always Soren who was praised, Soren who was trusted with everything. And for what? Just because he was... perfect?
Soren understood business like no other. Every decision he made was gold. Clients adored him. His every step, calculated and flawless.
Tristan's voice was cold, spoken to no one yet aimed like a dagger. "As long as you exist, little brother, I will always be overlooked. So you must vanish. If I want the world to see me, you must disappear."
The sun sank beneath the horizon, darkness swallowing Kingsley Villa.
As the main door opened with a quiet click, Soren stepped inside. His gaze landed on the couch, and to his surprise, he saw Freya there—watching TV.
She rarely left her room except for meals. This was unexpected.
His lips curled into a faint smile.
Without a word, he walked past her, toward his bedroom. The image of her still lingered in his mind—those eyes pretending not to see him, but he knew. She saw him.
She had made her decision. She was done being scared. She would return the money he used to pay her mother's hospital bills. She would sever this bond, this cage that he called love.
Soren came back down, changed into a black shirt that clung to his tall frame, and found Freya still on the couch. It was 10 PM.
He moved toward her, the air around him charged.
"Sweetheart, have you had dinner yet?" he asked softly.
Freya didn't respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
Soren narrowed his eyes. He stepped in front of the TV.
Freya's head jerked up, eyes flashing. "Move. I'm watching something."
Soren's lips tugged into an amused smirk. "My sweetheart wants to watch TV. But first—answer me. Did you eat?"
Freya's voice was sharp, laced with irritation. "Why do you care? What difference does it make to you?"
His expression hardened. He stepped closer, gripped the fabric of her t-shirt gently, pulling her toward him. Their faces were just inches apart.
"It matters," he said quietly, dangerously calm. "Because you are mine. Your body, your soul—everything belongs to me. And if you're mine, then you'll stay healthy. You'll stay happy."
Her body shivered. Not from cold, but from the weight of his words.
Freya looked at him, fear bubbling under the surface.
Soren's eyes flickered down to her neck. Faint marks were visible—bruises left by his hand that afternoon.
His jaw clenched.
He turned toward the hallway and called for the servant. "Bring the first aid kit. Now."
Moments later, the box arrived. Soren dropped to his knees in front of Freya, pulled her hair gently to the side, and began dabbing ointment on her bruised skin.
She winced slightly at the sting, unaware those marks were even there.
Freya watched him—confused, unsure. Who was he?
The same man who bruised her now touched her with reverent care.
Soren's focus didn't waver. He hated seeing marks on her. Even if they came from him.
Especially if they came from him.
When he finished, he stood. "Come. We're having dinner."
This time, Freya said nothing. She followed.
Later that night, as she lay in bed, her eyes fluttering closed, she felt his arms wrap around her from behind. She tensed.
She tried to move away.
He held her tighter.
She gave up.
Because resisting Soren was like resisting gravity.
Soon, sleep claimed her. In that silence, Soren turned her toward him, studying her face.
She looked so peaceful in sleep. So innocent.
His arms wrapped tighter, possessive, unyielding.
"You're mine, sweetheart," he whispered against her hair. "Only mine."
And slowly, he too fell asleep, the cold breeze slipping through the windows, wrapping the room in a quiet frost.
---
The Next Morning
Freya got ready to visit her mother in the hospital. This time, the car was waiting—ordered by Soren.
She didn't argue.
He'd made it clear last night. No car, no outing.
She slid into the backseat and stared out the window, already preparing herself for what the day might bring.
But she wasn't ready for this.
When she entered the hospital room, she froze.
He was there.
The man she hated more than anything.
Richard.
Her father.
"Freya," he said softly.
Her eyes burned red as she stared at him. The man who had once thrown her out without a second thought. As if she meant nothing.
Lucia, her mother, looked up with hopeful eyes. "Freya, your dad's here for you. He told me everything—how Helena forced you out of the house. But he's here now. He wants to take you back."
Freya's voice trembled with fury. "Dad? He's not my dad. The day I left that house, he died for me. Only you, Mom—only you have ever cared."
Tears welled in Lucia's eyes. She knew this. She had always known. But she never wanted to break her daughter's heart with the truth.
Now, Freya had broken it herself.
Richard looked pained, playing his role with finesse. "Freya, please... forgive me. I know I failed you. But I had my reasons. I want to fix things now. Let me give you both a better life."
Freya stared at him, disgust swirling in her stomach.
He thought he could buy her love back? That just because he offered now, she'd forget everything?
She wasn't that girl anymore.
"Leave," she said coldly. "Neither I nor my mother are going anywhere with you. We're dead to you—and you're dead to us. We're not a family anymore."
Richard's expression faltered. This wasn't how he expected it to go.
He had assumed Lucia's surgery hadn't happened—figured Freya would be desperate.
But the surgery was done. The bills were paid. His daughter... didn't need him.