It was already six in the evening, but Freya was still at her desk, diligently finishing her work. The office had long emptied out; she was the only one left in the echoing silence. When she finally glanced at the clock, her heart jolted—she hurriedly closed her files and grabbed her bag, stepping out into the dusky city air.
She had come in that morning using the car Soren had sent, but tonight she had to go back alone. Pulling out her phone, she quickly booked a cab and waited on the pavement, hugging her arms around herself against the growing chill.
Just then, a sleek black luxury car rolled to a smooth stop in front of her. Freya's eyes instinctively drifted toward it, her brows pulling together in a faint frown. The tinted window slid down, and the man inside smiled at her with unsettling warmth.
"Freya," Max called, his voice effortlessly smooth. "Come on, get in. I'll drop you off. You won't find any taxis here this late. I'm heading home anyway."
Freya's face hardened at the sight of him. She forced her expression into something neutral before answering, "No, thank you. I've already booked a cab. It'll be here soon. You don't need to worry, you should go."
She didn't want Max knowing where she lived. It could turn into another layer of trouble she couldn't afford, and if Soren found out, she shuddered to imagine his reaction.
Max's smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened, revealing a flicker of something darker in his eyes. "Cancel it," he urged softly. "Why go with a stranger when you can be safe with someone you know? Isn't that better?"
Freya's chest tightened. She didn't know how to turn him down without provoking him further. She felt the pressure of his words, the twisted logic wrapping around her like a snake.
Just then, her cab finally arrived, the headlights slicing through the gloom. Relief washed over her like a sudden breath of air.
"My cab's here," she said quickly, relief lacing her voice. "You should leave too." Without another glance, she rushed toward the cab, slipped inside, and didn't look back.
Max watched the cab pull away, his gaze following her like a predator's. He let out a low, amused chuckle, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.
"Run, Freya," he whispered to the empty air, a manic gleam in his eyes. "Run as far as you like. You'll always end up back in my arms. I love this game… the further you pull away, the closer I want to come."
Then, with a final smirk, he started his car and drove off into the darkness.
---
Freya asked the driver to stop a few blocks away from Soren's villa. She didn't want anyone to know she stayed there, didn't want to give away even that tiny fragment of herself.
When she finally reached the villa on foot, she slipped inside quietly. But as soon as she stepped into the bedroom, her heart thudded painfully.
Soren was there.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his black suit jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the strong curve of his collarbone. His hair, slightly disheveled, fell into his eyes, giving him an almost dangerous softness that contrasted with the cold intensity burning in his gaze.
Freya felt his eyes on her, cold and unyielding, pinning her to the spot. A shiver climbed her spine, but she forced herself to stay composed. Setting her bag down on the table, she turned toward the bathroom.
"Sweetheart," Soren's voice cut across the room, sharp and freezing. "Where did you go after the hospital?"
He rose from the bed, the movement graceful yet predatory. Freya's throat tightened. His voice carried a power that reached right into her bones, freezing her in place. Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression carefully guarded.
"It's none of your business," she snapped, her voice trembling only slightly. "Just because I live here with you doesn't mean I owe you every detail of my day. I don't have to tell you where I go or what I do."
She turned to leave again, but before she could take another step, Soren's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, yanking her against his chest. She gasped, her eyes wide as she crashed into his solid frame, her breath catching painfully.
"You're my wife," he growled, his eyes dark and consuming. "Where you go, what you do, what you wear—I have the right to know. Or did you forget what was written in our contract? You need my permission for every major decision."
Freya stared at him, stunned. She knew the contract said that, but the reality of it, the suffocating possessiveness in his eyes, terrified her.
She tried to push him away, her voice breaking. "Yes, I'm your wife, but only because you forced me. You trapped me in this marriage out of obligation, not love! I had a life before you, a job—why should I give that up? And once I repay your so-called kindness, once I pay off my mother's hospital bills, I will leave. I won't live under your shadow forever!"
At her words, Soren's eyes turned crimson with rage. His jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack. The word "leave" echoed in his mind like a threat. He hadn't orchestrated this marriage to let her go. She was his—completely, irrevocably.
In a blinding rush of fury, he pulled her closer and crushed his lips to hers. The kiss wasn't gentle; it was raw, angry, a violent declaration of ownership rather than affection.
Freya struggled, pain shooting through her body. Then, a sharp, searing agony ripped through her hand. Her eyes flew open, tears spilling over as she realized—Soren had broken her finger.
She trembled violently, her body almost giving out. He finally tore his lips away, pulling her into an even tighter embrace as she sobbed uncontrollably, her cries muffled against his chest. She clutched at his shirt with her good hand, the other hanging useless and numb at her side.
Soren pressed her head against his chest, his fingers stroking her hair almost tenderly, a cruel contrast to his earlier violence. His heartbeat thundered beneath her cheek, fast and wild.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper, trembling with dangerous obsession. "Why do you keep talking about leaving me? You know you're my life… the mere thought of you walking away drives me insane. You belong here. You belong with me."
Freya sobbed harder, her body shivering from pain and exhaustion. She tried to push away, but he only held her tighter, caging her in his arms. Her tears soaked through his white shirt, staining it with raw desperation.
Soren's voice dropped lower, rough but strangely gentle now. "I don't want your money. I never asked for it. Don't call it charity or a favor. You don't need to work anymore. You don't need to fight or struggle. Whatever you want, I'll give you. There's nothing in this world your husband can't provide for you."
Freya couldn't answer. Her mind felt fractured, spiraling in the aftermath of pain and fear. She didn't even feel her hand anymore—only a dull, throbbing void.
Slowly, her sobs turned to faint whimpers, her energy draining. Soren loosened his hold slightly and looked down at her. Her body trembled, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. Her lips were split, tiny drops of blood smudging her pale skin.
He guided her gently to the bed, seating her down before retrieving a first-aid kit from the wardrobe. He knelt before her, his movements almost reverent now.
When he reached for her injured hand, she recoiled instinctively, her eyes wide with terror. Soren paused, taking a slow, shaky breath before carefully taking her trembling fingers in his.
His touch was soft now, almost loving, as he cleaned and bandaged her hand. Freya's eyes shimmered with fresh tears, watching him with a haunted emptiness.
After wrapping the bandage, Soren leaned forward and pressed a delicate kiss to her broken finger. Freya flinched, trying to pull away, but her hand refused to move, numb and heavy.
He looked at her hand, at the angry red marks on her pale skin. He caressed her carefully, as if trying to erase the damage he himself had caused.
Then, he lifted his gaze to hers, his eyes deep and unreadable. "Sweetheart," he murmured, "you'll listen to me now, won't you? You won't work anymore… right?"
Freya met his eyes, her lashes wet and heavy. She had no strength left to fight. Slowly, she nodded, her head dipping in surrender.
A slow, satisfied smile curved across Soren's face, softening the feral hunger that had burned there moments ago.