THE NEXT MORNING
Wrapped in the expensive sheets of a bed that felt far too luxurious to be real, Freya stirred, warm and weightless.
For a moment, she didn't open her eyes. She just breathed.
Her body was deliciously sore from tension and passion. They hadn't slept together—not like that—but the emotional collision of last night had left her more shaken than anything physical ever could.
"Hey," Arnold's voice came softly from the other side of the room.
She opened her eyes and found him sitting in a chair near the window, in a white T-shirt and gray pajama pants.
He had a cup of coffee in one hand and an unread newspaper in the other. He looked so casual it was almost illegal.
"Didn't mean to wake you," he said, setting the coffee down.
"I wasn't really asleep," she murmured. "I was just... absorbing."
He smirked, then stood and walked over. "Absorbing, huh? That sounds ominous."
Freya rolled her eyes and sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Last night was..."
She was suddenly short of words.
"Yeah," he said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "It was."
They stared at each other for a moment. No rush. Just breath and presence.
Then Freya's gaze darted to the glowing clock on his wall, and panic slapped her across the face.
"Shit!"
Arnold blinked. "What?"
"I have work. Oh God." She shoved back the covers and leapt out of bed, nearly tripping over her own feet as she scrambled for her bag. "I didn't set an alarm and I need to be in by nine and I don't have any clothes and…shit, shit, shit—"
Arnold stood calmly, clearly entertained. "Freya…"
"No, I'm serious!" she cried, spinning around. "I'm going to look like I just did the walk of shame in last night's dress! My editor's already half-convinced I'm losing it!"
He stepped into her spiraling orbit and gently caught her shoulders. "Freya. Breathe."
She did. Sort of.
"I'll handle it," he said.
"You'll... handle my wardrobe crisis?"
Arnold's eyes twinkled with unholy mischief. "You clearly haven't met me."
—
Twenty minutes later, Freya stood in his walk-in closet—scratch that, fashion vault—wearing a cream-colored blouse with delicate gold buttons and high-waisted navy trousers that hugged her legs like they were tailor-made for her. Because, of course, they probably were.
"You just have women's work clothes in your penthouse?" she asked through the bathroom door as she brushed her hair furiously.
"No," came Arnold's muffled reply. "I have a fashion concierge on speed dial. She brought over a selection. Sent them up through the service elevator."
Freya groaned. "Of course she did."
"Don't worry. She didn't ask questions."
"That makes it worse!"
He laughed, deep and throaty.
When she stepped out, Arnold looked up from his phone and actually gave a low whistle. "Damn. If I knew a wardrobe crisis would make you look like that, I would've sabotaged your laundry a week ago."
Freya narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you flirting with me or trying to get punched?"
"Bit of both," he said. "Also, your coffee's in the cupholder of the car waiting downstairs. Marcel's your driver today. He knows the way to your office."
"I—" She blinked. "Wait, wait. You're chauffeuring me now?"
He shrugged. "You're late. I'm efficient."
---
The car ride was surreal. Marcel was quiet and dignified, the kind of man who probably used to drive diplomats.
Freya spent most of it staring at her reflection in the window, wondering what alternate timeline she had woken up in.
She touched her neck absentmindedly and winced slightly. Oh yeah. The hickey. Great.
As soon as she got to the office, she made a beeline for her desk. She was five minutes late, but somehow still looked like she'd walked off the pages of a luxury fashion editorial.
She dropped into her chair, letting out a deep exhale. She immediately grabbed her phone and sent a text to the one person who would understand.
FREYA:
You free? I need to debrief before I combust.
LAURA:
At home. Remote day. Spill it. Call me now.
Freya didn't waste a second. She slipped her AirPods in, pulled up her phone, and hit the dial. It rang once.
"Did you sleep with him?" Laura asked the moment she picked up.
Freya nearly choked. "Good morning to you too!"
"I've been dying to know! Don't stall. Give me the goods. Skin or no skin?"
Freya laughed. "Okay, first of all—no skin."
There was silence.
Then: "Excuse me?"
"We didn't sleep together, Laura."
"WHAT?"
"Shhh!" Freya hissed, looking around.
Her coworkers were already eyeing her like she'd stepped out of a soap opera.
"You stayed the night. In his penthouse. And you didn't do the tango?"
Freya groaned and leaned back in her chair. "Yeah, we did make out like our lives depended on it. But no actual sex, no."
Laura's voice dropped to something almost reverent. "He kissed you stupid and then just... let you sleep?"
"Yes. Like some kind of gentleman! He kissed me like he was starving, made my knees melt. Like, I saw stars. I forgot my last name. I forgot his last name. For a good three minutes, we were just mouths and hands and desperation. And then he tucked me into bed," Freya said, still sounding stunned. "Gave me water. Pulled the blanket over me. Like a dad in a Disney movie. Only hotter."
"Oh my God."
"And this morning, I was panicking about clothes—because duh, I left my apartment in a dress that screams anxiety—and without even blinking, he ordered designer workwear for me."
Laura made a noise like she was combusting. "Please tell me he also sent you to work in a helicopter."
"No. A black SUV. With a driver named Marcel. I was going to call an Uber like a normal human, but Arnold went full billionaire fix-it mode."
"Of course. Of course he has a driver named Marcel. Do you know what my boyfriend did this morning?"
"What?"
"Left one slice of toast in the toaster, ate the rest, and said he 'wasn't sure I was hungry.' I would leave him for Arnold in under twelve seconds."
Freya laughed, a real one this time. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. Now back to this man. Do you know why he stopped?"
Freya's voice softened. "Yeah I guess. It's not like he wanted to stop. Like he didn't want to rush it. Like he wanted me to know I could trust him."
Laura was quiet for a while. "Damn. That's... kind of hot."
"I know."
"So what now?"
Freya stared at her monitor. "I don't know. I mean, we kissed. That changed everything. But there's still so much chaos. The fact that I don't know if I'm falling for him or if I'm just getting swept up in his orbit."
Laura hummed. "Do you feel like you're falling?"
"I feel... dizzy. Like I'm finally breathing air I didn't know I needed. Like part of me's been clenched since the day I met him, and last night something finally let go."
She blew out a breath.
"But I don't even know what this is yet. A fling? A crisis? A very expensive mistake?"
Laura arched her brow. "Let me put it this way: if a man can make you late, drive you to work, and ruin you with just a kiss? It's not a mistake. Girl. You're toast."
Freya sighed. "Crispy. Golden-brown. Emotional toast."
That's when she saw Alex stroll up, holding two cups of coffee.
"I'll call you back later," Freya said and hung up.
"Hey, you looked like you were dying," he said, placing a cup on her desk. "Extra espresso. Bribe for your insights on my next pitch."
She looked up with grateful eyes. "You're a saint."
"Don't let that get out. I've got a morally ambiguous reputation to maintain."
She chuckled and took a sip. Heaven.
But Alex didn't leave right away. He hovered, gaze flickering from her computer screen to her blouse. His eyebrows lifted slightly.
"New outfit?" he asked casually.
Freya froze for a second.
"Uh. Yeah." She forced a smile. "Kind of a... last-minute emergency change."
"Looks expensive."
She glanced down, cursed the fact that the gold buttons shimmered under fluorescent lights, and said weakly, "Just something I had lying around."
"Huh. Well. It suits you," he said. "Makes you look like... you run this place."
Freya laughed awkwardly. "Let's not jinx it. I'm barely running on caffeine."
He shrugged. "Still. You look great."
His tone was sincere. Not flirtatious. But not not flirtatious either.
Freya cleared her throat. "Thanks, Alex."
He gave a quick nod and started to walk off, but paused halfway, looking over his shoulder. "You doing anything Friday?"
She blinked. "Friday?"
"There's this gallery opening downtown. Could be fun. Not formal or anything. Just... artsy chaos. You'd like it."
Her stomach did a weird twist.
"I'll have to check," she said softly.
Alex nodded again. "No pressure. Just thought I'd ask."
He walked away, his shoulders just a bit stiffer than before. And Freya let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
Flora sat quietly at her desk, eyes glued to the screen while her fingers absently typed nonsense on her keyboard.
Her ears were tuned to every conversation around her, while glancing at Freya occasionally.
Then her phone buzzed silently in her pocket.
She checked the screen: Greg.
She quickly stood and grabbed a file.
"Need to drop this at records," she said to no one in particular and strolled out of the newsroom.
Once she turned the corner and found an empty corridor, she answered.
"I thought you'd be busy counting stock losses," she murmured.
Greg's voice slid through the receiver. "I kept rewatching the press conference replay. Your boy Arnold declared his love for Ariel in front of half the globe."
Flora scoffed. "Yeah, didn't see that coming. Thought he'd crawl after Freya first."
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm surprised. I figured he'd do something dramatic for Freya. You said she was different."
Greg's tone sharpened just slightly. "She still is. He's playing a long strategy. Public peace now, private recovery later."
"Yeah, I think you're right. Freya's been awkward today… I don't know if it has something to do with him," Flora leaned against the wall. "So what's our move then? Ariel's back in the spotlight, Freya's off the hook, and Arnold just poured gasoline on his PR team."
Greg was quiet for a while. "We shift the spotlight again. Let Ariel enjoy her moment. It won't last. In the meantime, I want you close to Freya. Closer than ever."
Her lips curled. "What am I looking for now?"
"Start planting seeds," Greg said flatly. "Make her question everything. Feed her doubts about Arnold. Make her think he's been playing her from the start."
Her eyes narrowed. "Like what, exactly?"
"Imply he was involved in her accident. Anonymous notes. Misplaced recordings. Altered texts. Just enough to make her wonder. Enough to fracture trust."
"Dark," Flora whispered, almost admiringly.
"Necessary," he replied. "He may have hidden behind love. Let's show her what his love really costs."
Flora glanced back down the hallway toward the newsroom. Her voice dropped. "She's smarter than she looks, Greg. If I push too hard, she'll catch on."
"Then don't push. Let her conclusions feel like her own. Bleed her slowly."
There was a silence between them.
"Call me if anything shifts," he finally said, then hung up.
Flora stared at her reflection in the elevator panel and smiled.
"Bleed her slowly," she repeated under her breath, and returned to the newsroom as the naive intern again.
★★★
The morning after her call with Greg, Flora arrived at the office fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
She passed through the security doors with her usual polite smile and headed straight to her desk stationed directly across from Freya's.
She sat, powered on her computer, and waited.
By 9:02 a.m., Freya arrived.
Flora greeted her with a warm smile.
"Morning, Freya! Coffee's on your desk. Your favorite."
Freya blinked in surprise. "Oh... thanks. That's thoughtful."
"Thought you could use a boost," Flora said cheerily, then turned back to her screen.
She didn't need a thank-you. She just needed trust. Small gestures built trust.
By midmorning, Flora put phase one of Greg's instructions into action.
She printed out a fake email thread. It was designed to look like an internal exchange between one of Arnold's PR staff and a hospital administrator.
The subject line read: "Damage control instructions – re: accident witness."
She slipped the mail and a small manila envelope into Freya's bag when she went to the break room.
Inside the envelope was a blurry photo of Arnold speaking with someone who vaguely resembled the man who hit her with the car. No context. No signature. Just enough to ignite uncertainty.
Later that day, when Freya found it, her lips pressed together.
She picked it up, brows knitting as she read. "Where did this come from?"
Flora kept watching silently with a tiny smile on her face, ready to watch the cracks spread.
The moment Freya opened it, her face turned pale.
"What?" She whispered to herself, mouth agape. "Arnold and—"