Chapter 20 20
FREYA
Nana finally turned and headed for the stairs, and I retreated back into the room to change. I felt a small surge of pride that I’d managed to push back the urge to ask about Steve. Because why should I care? I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of him being the first thing on my mind.
I pulled on a simple tank top and a short bum skirt, then spent a few minutes brushing my hair until it actually looked decent. I checked the mirror and actually smiled at the woman looking back.
This was how I’d always wanted to dress—walking around my own home, feeling pretty for my husband. It was the version of marriage I’d imagined before I actually got married.
But that dream had sold out barely three months in. And my reality is waking up to a husband who was already fully dressed and halfway out the door by the time I opened my eyes. The constant loneliness of those mornings had made me lose myself.
“Mark,” I muttered his name, the word feeling cold on my tongue. I shook the thought away, picked up my new phone and walked out.
I made my way down to the dining room, the smell of fresh coffee and spices filling the hallway. I found Nana shifting some heavy silver plates at the table.
“Wait, do you do the cooking too?” I asked, as I walked closer to her
“No,” another voice answered from behind me.
I spun around to see a man in a professional white apron carrying a tray of fresh, vibrant juice. He looked like he stepped out of a five-star kitchen.
“I am Chef Bartholomaus-Vincenzo-Maximillian-de-la-Cruz,” he said, the name going on for so long I literally lost track of the middle.
I just blinked, my head tilting. “What?”
The chef chuckled, giving a small, graceful bow that made him seem more like a friend. “But you can call me Ben.”
“Oh... Ben. That’s better,” I said, finally letting a real smile reach my eyes.
But the smile didn't last. Ben’s eyes suddenly flicked to something behind me, and his face went neutral as he dropped into a stiff, formal bow. I felt a shift in the air before I heard a heavy step. I turned around, and there was Steve.
He was walking toward us, wearing loose, oversized pants and a tight top that did absolutely nothing to hide his muscles or the ink on his arms. He looked powerful, almost predatory.
“Good morning, Nana,” he greeted her with a low, respectful bow, his voice warm and affectionate.
Then his gaze fell back on me. He looked at me in a way I couldn’t quite read, but it sure as hell sent a shiver down my spine. It was intense, heavy, and it made my skin prickle.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice to say something, anything—until a sharp buzz cut through the silence.
The phone in my hand was vibrating. I froze. Aside from Steve, who even had this number? Steve’s eyes flicked down to the screen, and I could tell he was just as surprised as I was.
I hit accept and pressed the phone to my ear. A low, urgent voice came through, loud enough that I knew Steve could hear every word.
“Freya? Where are you?”
“Gladys?” I asked. It sounded just like her. I remembered using this phone to call the store line.
“Your husband is here,” Gladys whispered, her voice shaking. “He’s asking for you.”
My heart stopped. “Mark?”
“What should I tell him?” Gladys asked quickly.
“He... he asked—”
Before I could even form a sentence, a hand snatched the phone right away from my ear. I gasped as Steve stepped into my space, his face a mask of cold fury. In an instant, Ben excused himself with a quiet nod and slipped out of the kitchen, while NaNa rose gracefully, murmuring something about tending to the garden before following him out, leaving just us—and the tension crackling like electricity.
“Why the hell would you do that?” I snapped, reaching for the phone.
“Do you have anything to say to him?” Steve asked. He sounded beyond angry; His tone was low, edged with something dark—maybe something more possessive.
I blinked, caught off guard. I knew Mark might be nothing to me anymore, but where did Steve get off snatching the phone like that? “Steve… I just think—”
“Think what?” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You want to tell him you’re getting your daughter back? That you’re sending him a divorce?
A flash of heat rose in my chest. I was tired of being handled. I was tired of people deciding things for me.
“I don’t think you have the right to just decide how I handle my life!” I barked at him.
I—felt a surge of frustration boiling up. The way he was acting, so controlling, like he had every right to dictate my moves. It grated against the raw edges of my independence, the part of me that was still fighting to reclaim control after Mark’s betrayal.
“I don’t think you have the right to just barge in and take over my life like this,” I said, my voice trembling with barely contained fury.
Steve smirked, but it wasn’t amused—it was cold, challenging. “Do you still see him as your husband?”
“What?”
“Do you fucking still see him as your husband?” Steve repeated, his hand sliding up to my throat in one swift motion. He held my neck firmly, not hurting, but the grip was unyielding, demanding. His eyes bored into mine, dark and intense, like he was daring me to lie. The heat from his palm seeped into my skin, sending conflicting sparks through my body—fear, anger, and that damn temptation I couldn’t shake.
I pushed him away hard, breaking his hold.
“Just get the fuck away from me!” I yelled, my voice cracking.
I didn't wait to see his reaction. I turned and bolted out of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs as I ran as far away from him as I could.