The following days, Arnold kept finding himself... distracted. Freya was everywhere. Not just in his mind, but in every breath.
His nights were filled with unrest. He'd stare at the phone in his hand, type messages he never sent.
He couldn't focus on stock reports nor board memos, no matter how much he tried.
He kept watching her from afar. Too guilty to push. But not enough of a saint to disappear.
At a book signing she helped organize the following week, Arnold showed up, disguised. But Freya recognized him.
He bought every copy on the table.
The author was stunned.
Freya got annoyed and hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"Following my favorite journalist," he whispered smoothly, sipping champagne. "I figured if I can't talk to you, I can at least support your events."
He loved that he still got under her skin.
But hated that he had to.
When the event was over, he just winked, tipped an imaginary hat, and left without a word.
Then came the flowers consecutively for five days.
They were simple: wild white daisies in a brown paper wrap.
She was flushed, furious and flustered at the same time.
She stopped putting them in water, but didn't throw them out either.
★★★
The next week, Freya and Flora left the office to cover a charity auction.
Waiters glided through the ballroom with champagne trays, the soft hum of a jazz quartet floating above the social performance.
As the event commenced, Freya stood near the stage, clipboard in hand, running through the checklist.
Her black dress and heels were just comfortable enough, and her head was fully immersed in work.
Flora also stood a few feet away, blending in with the other junior staff and volunteers. She was dressed elegantly but conservatively, playing the role of the eager intern to perfection.
Then there was a shift in the air. A prickle ran down Freya's neck.
She felt him before she saw him.
She turned her head casually toward the entrance, and there he was.
Arnold.
He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, no name tag, just confidence stitched into every line of his posture.
Their eyes locked for a second across the room before Freya forced herself to turn away, pretending to review the guest list.
He took a seat near the back, alone but completely noticeable. Eyes locked on her.
Flora noticed and watched intently. She didn't move. Didn't speak. But her fingers curled slightly by her side.
Immediately as they left the stage, Freya's phone lit up.
A text from Arnold…
ARNOLD:
You're doing well.
Freya didn't look at him. Instead, she walked past and returned to her seat.
"Didn't know you were the auction type." She finally texted back.
ARNOLD:
I'm full of surprises.
FREYA:
Yeah. Like lying to the world about your fiancée?
Arnold stylishly turned to glance at her and smirked.
ARNOLD:
Still mad about that?
FREYA:
You made me look like a Stepping Stone Scandal. What do you think?
He didn't flinch, but immediately replied:
"I made a choice to protect you. You can hate it. But it's still the truth."
FREYA:
Why are you here?
ARNOLD:
Because I support the cause.
"Really?" Freya scoffed.
FREYA:
Liar.
ARNOLD:
Alright. I came to see you.
FREYA:
Why? To confuse me more? Drop another flower at my door? Watch from the shadows like some brooding billionaire ghost?
Arnold laughed.
ARNOLD:
You always had a way with words. I miss you.
FREYA:
You miss controlling things. You don't get to invade my life in a suit and expect everything to fall into place.
ARNOLD:
I never expected that. I just hoped.
They both raised their heads and stared at each other for a long moment, emotion simmering between them.
Then, the auctioneer's voice boomed across the hall, announcing the first item.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we begin the night with a piece designed exclusively for tonight's charity event—a one-of-a-kind handcrafted gold necklace with a sapphire pendant, donated by Veronne Jewelers. Starting bid: $3,000."
"Three thousand," someone called.
"Four," another voice.
"Five."
"Eight thousand," came a new clear and commanding voice.
Freya felt her chest tightened.
Arnold.
The auctioneer faltered.
"Eight thousand," he repeated, locking eyes with Freya as if he'd said it for her, not for the necklace.
A few more bids followed, scattered and half-hearted.
"Ten thousand."
"Fifteen," Arnold raised it again, barely blinking.
"Do I hear sixteen?"
There was Silence.
"Fifteen thousand going once... going twice... SOLD!"
A round of applause erupted and Arnold nodded politely.
The necklace was boxed, sealed carefully, and handed over to him.
Flora's eyes followed every movement.
He didn't keep it. He gave it to his assistant and whispered some instructions to him.
That night, Freya received a small black box at her doorstep.
When she opened it, her throat tightened.
Inside, she found the necklace: a gold pendant with a quill-shaped charm. No note.
She sat on her bed for a long time, heart pounding and thumb brushing the delicate metal.
She didn't wear it.
But she didn't throw it away either.