Chapter 10 The Perfect Solution
[Freya]
"Freya, you need to eat," he said, his footsteps approaching.
"I'm not hungry," I muttered. The terror from earlier had killed any appetite I might have had, but more than that—I wanted to defy him somehow. He'd taken away my ability to break things, to threaten him, to fight back in any meaningful way. But this? This I could still control.
"You haven't had a proper meal in days."
"Good." I pressed my face against the cushions. "Maybe I'll just waste away to nothing. Then you'll have to explain to everyone why your 'intervention' killed me."
It was petty and self-destructive, but it was the only weapon I had left. If he wanted to keep me prisoner, then he could watch me refuse everything he offered.
I heard him set something down on the coffee table, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut. Let him see how well his control worked when I simply refused to participate.
More silence. Then I felt the cushions dip as he sat beside me.
"You have two choices here," he said, his voice taking on that dangerous edge again. "You can eat voluntarily, or I can make a call to the hospital administration about budget cuts. Nancy's been there thirty years, hasn't she? Such a dedicated employee. It would be terrible if she suddenly found herself without a job at her age."
I shot upright, fury blazing in my chest. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me." His blue eyes were completely serious. "One word from me about reducing staffing costs, and she's gone."
The threat hit exactly where he'd intended. Nancy didn't deserve to pay for my resistance.
"You're despicable," I whispered.
"I'm practical." He picked up the plate. "Now, are you going to eat, or do I need to make that call?"
"Fine," I spat. "But I can feed myself."
"Can you?" He raised an eyebrow, twirling pasta around a fork. "Because your recent behavior suggests otherwise."
Before I could protest, he held the fork toward my mouth. "Open."
"I'm not a child—"
"Then stop acting like one."
With no other choice, I reluctantly parted my lips. Despite my anger, I couldn't suppress a small sound of appreciation. The pasta was perfectly cooked, the sauce rich with garlic and herbs.
He continued to feed me with surprising patience. The food was genuinely delicious, and my body was responding to the first proper nutrition it had received in days.
By the time the plate was empty, I felt more physically satisfied than I had in weeks.
"Better?" Emerson asked, setting the empty plate aside.
The exhaustion that had been building for days was finally catching up with me. The warm meal had made me drowsy.
"The guest room is down the hall," he said, standing. "Second door on the right. There are fresh towels in the bathroom."
"This is going to be so boring," I muttered, crossing my arms. "You took my phone, so what am I supposed to do all night? Stare at the ceiling?"
"There's a TV in the room," he replied evenly. "And a bookshelf with a decent selection. I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself."
Without another word, I pushed myself up and padded down the hallway, deliberately avoiding eye contact. The guest room was immaculate—soft blue walls, crisp white bedding, and an ensuite bathroom bigger than my entire studio.
I stood under the hot shower, letting the steam wash away the day's stress. The bathroom was elegant—charcoal gray marble tiles with warm heated floors and a rainfall showerhead that delivered endless hot water. So different from my apartment's ancient pipes that barely managed ten minutes of lukewarm water before turning arctic.
It wasn't until I turned off the water that I realized my fatal oversight—I had no clean clothes.
Stepping out, the warm floors were a stark contrast to my apartment's perpetually cold tiles. With a towel wrapped around me, I crept down the hallway. A soft light spilled from a partially open door—his study. Through the gap, I could see Emerson sitting at a large desk, reading through what looked like medical files, making occasional notes on a legal pad. He'd changed from his work clothes into dark jeans and a gray sweater, looking more relaxed but no less intimidating.
I knocked softly on the doorframe.
"I... I don't have anything to sleep in," I said, heat rising in my cheeks.
"Right," he said, his voice rougher than usual. He moved to his dresser, pulling out a soft gray t-shirt. "This should work."
He approached, holding out the shirt. As I reached for it, we ended up standing much closer than necessary—close enough that I caught his scent, something clean and distinctly masculine that made me unexpectedly aware of how little the towel actually covered.
"Here," he said, but when I went to take the shirt, his fingers didn't immediately release it.
For a moment we both held the fabric between us, our hands almost touching. I found myself looking up at him, struck by how tall he was, how his presence seemed to fill the space around us. There was something magnetic about being this close to him, despite everything that had happened today.
"It'll be big on you," he said quietly, his voice softer than usual.
"That's... that's fine," I managed, suddenly very aware of my heartbeat.
He finally released the shirt and stepped back. "It's new, by the way. Washed but never worn." He paused. "I ordered some clothes for you online. They should arrive tomorrow."
"You don't need to do that," I said, clutching the shirt to my chest. "I have clothes at my apartment. You could just... go get some things for me."
He shook his head. "I've seen how your clothes fit you at work. Your scrubs are too loose, everything hangs off you now. You need things in your actual size."
Heat flashed through me—part embarrassment, part irritation that he'd been watching me that closely.
"Get some sleep, Freya," he said, his voice gentler now. "Tomorrow we'll start working on getting you better."
I clutched the shirt to my chest and hurried back to the guest room. As I slipped into his t-shirt, I tried to ignore how it felt against my skin.
The shirt was enormous on me, hanging past my thighs. I climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up.
The mattress was ridiculously comfortable compared to my lumpy futon at home. His shirt smelled faintly of him—something clean and warm that should have felt strange but somehow didn't. But comfort couldn't quiet the emptiness spreading through my chest.
What was the point of any of this? Mom was lying in that hospital bed, machines keeping her body alive while her mind was already gone. The doctors said there was no hope of recovery. She was trapped between life and death, and I was trapped paying for a ghost.
I stared at the ceiling, feeling the familiar weight settling over me like a heavy blanket. The same weight that had been growing heavier every day since I found her. The weight that whispered that maybe we'd both be better off if I just... let go.
I could sell the apartment first. Maybe get forty thousand if I was lucky—enough to pay Emerson back, at least most of it. Then I could write him a note explaining the rest, apologizing for the trouble.
After that... I could go see Mom one last time. Hold her hand, tell her I was sorry I couldn't save her, that I was coming to find her. The machines would keep beeping, but maybe somewhere in there, she'd hear me.
Then we could both just... stop. No more of this endless, pointless struggling. No more watching her waste away while I drowned trying to keep us both afloat.
The thought should have scared me, but instead I felt something I hadn't experienced in months—relief. Like a weight lifting off my chest. All the impossible decisions, the crushing debt, the sleepless nights worrying about money and Mom and everything falling apart... it could all just end.
I could finally rest.