Chapter 2:
The reason behind Kristian’s refusal was simple. Before Ashley returned, he needed someone to manage his elders at home—and Freya, adored by his parents and grandpa, was the obvious choice. But sometimes, Freya couldn’t help but wonder—did he really think she was a fool? Otherwise, why would he assume she’d play along in hiding his affair?
Now, with his sudden demand for divorce, frustration simmered inside her.
Even after six months of steeling herself, a stubborn flicker of emotion remained.
She let out a slow breath, crossed to the sofa, and grabbed her phone. She tapped the contact labeled “Fred”—untouched for two years—and typed, “Check if Shaw Group’s facing any issues. And find out if Kristian’s terminally ill.”
Fred’s replies exploded onto the screen instantly.
“Holy—Freya?!”
“Never thought I’d hear from you again!”
“Two years, Freya. Two.”
“Where’ve you been?!”
She didn’t bother explaining.
Mood sour, she fired back a single word, “Check.”
Fred caved. “On it!”
She tossed the phone aside and waited.
If Kristian was divorcing her to spare her some tragedy, she’d forgive him—maybe even help. But if he was just an unfaithful jerk? She’d drop him without a second thought.
Thirty minutes later, her phone buzzed with Fred’s verdict. “Zero troubles. No illness, no crisis. Why the hell are you asking? Kristian’s loaded, hot, and sharp—you two are a match. Don’t you like pretty boys? Give it a shot!”
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She ignored the jab and shot back, “You are so blind.” Then she silenced her phone.
No external factors meant only one thing—Kristian was pure scum.
Fred stared at his screen, baffled. Did Freya wake up in a mood today?
Freya’s gaze landed on the divorce papers. After a pause, she snatched a pen, scrawled her name, and shoved them into a drawer. Then she headed for the shower.
When she emerged, her phone was a disaster—dozens of unread messages and thirty-two missed calls.
No guessing needed. Frederick Price—aka Fred—had clearly blabbed about her resurrection to the entire world.
Towel draped over her damp hair, she reached for her phone—only for it to ring again.
The caller ID flashed; it was her father.
Her chest tightened. Two years of silence, and now he called? She’d left Alerith City due to a situation involving her mother, and neither had she reached out to her father nor had he contacted her until now.
After a pause, she answered coolly. “Hello.”
Silence.
Freya, never one for patience, was about to hang up when Hugh Briggs’s raspy voice cut through. “Mina.”
.
.
.