Running from hell isnʼt easy. Especially when someoneʼs dragging you back down into it.
Belligerent, brash and always in shades of black, Freya is hardly a lady. Hidden away by her father, sheʼs lived a normal life despite being born into the dark...
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I TURN BACK to the library, about to look for another book, when my phone buzzes. Giulia must have brought it upstairs. It’s a video call from Sal and Pippa. Sighing, I decide to answer the call. I figure I owe them an explanation.
“Freya?” Sal’s concerned voice fills the air. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She narrows her eyes. “Where are you? And how are you engaged?! ”
“And why weren’t we invited to the engagement?!” Pippa chimes.
I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “It just happened, really. And it wasn’t really a happy occasion for me, you know, to want you guys to be there.”
They’re both quiet, but only for a short moment, before Pippa decides to speak again. “Frey…you never wanted to get married.”
“I still don’t,” I say, “It was arranged.”
There’s silence on the other side.
Sal’s face scrunches. “Okay, I knew you were filthy rich, but an arranged marriage? Is it the 1950s?”
I exhale. “But you can’t tell anyone, alright? They want the public to believe it was a love marriage.”
“So you don’t love him?”
I laugh.
But they’re looking at me with serious faces.
I deadpan. “No. I don’t.”
“Oh my God, are you in his apartment right now? We’re coming over.”
My eyes go wide. “No!”
There’s an awkward silence.
“He might kill you,” I mumble, “or something.”
Sal laughs, like I’m joking about how much my fiancé likes his space. “Right…”
Except I’m not joking.
I don’t think Torren cares enough to hurt them, but I wouldn’t put it past him to use my friends to hurt me. In fact, that’s exactly something he would do. Which is why I need them to stay as far away from him, and this entire mess, as possible.
Sal’s features shift into discomfort. “I’m just finding it hard to believe.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” I mutter.
Pippa sighs. “I guess it’s not so bad being in an arranged marriage if your husband looks like that…”
My face contorts. “He’s not my husband.”
“Yet,” Pippa adds.
“You don’t understand,” I groan, “He makes me want to kill myself.”
