I had read somewhere that curdled milk was a bad omen.

Some dream interpretation perceived it as a sign of dirty money, she thought, as she squinted her eyes at the expiration date printed on the milk's paper container.

Freya preferred her coffee black and unsweetened, but that night, she was craving something sweeter as she prepared her third cup of caffeinated tea in hopes that it would help her sleep despite all the beliefs otherwise.

It was already past midnight and yet, Freya was still wide awake despite the growing exhaustion and fatigue that plagued her those couple of days. Fueled by adrenaline and caffeine, she sat in silence at the dining table, surrounded by the subtle elegance of the room. The dim glow of the chandelier overhead cast a warm ambiance, complementing the polished wooden furniture and fine China neatly arranged before her.

The air was filled with the aroma of a quintessential English dinner spread, a collection of dishes that she, truth be told, was not particularly fond of. A roast beef, the crème de la crème of this household, dominated the center of the table, accompanied by sides of Yorkshire pudding and buttery mashed potatoes. The fine bone heirloom plates held an array of vegetables, including peas, carrots, and roasted Brussels sprouts. The air was tinged with the scent of a rich gravy that clung to the air, enhancing the overall experience.

Her gaze shifted to the meticulously set cutlery – gleaming silverware, crystal-clear glasses, and starched linen napkins neatly folded beside each plate. The room exuded an air of formality that spoke volumes about the English tradition, a stark contrast to what she had been accustomed to.

Though Freya was not particularly enamored with English cuisine, she managed to force a polite smile, acknowledging the effort she had put into curating this dinner. All her dining experiences were a testament to his appreciation for tradition, something that she, despite her personal preferences, had learned to tolerate for the sake of marital harmony.

Freya was so immersed in her deep thoughts that the soft footsteps behind her went unnoticed until he was right there, a silent presence in the room. The faint scent of his cologne finally caught her attention just before he could make a sound.

Glancing over her shoulder, she was greeted by the sight of Clementine who had quietly appeared in the doorway. A warm smile played on her lips as he looked at her, his gaze lingering on the dinner scattered across their dining.

“Clement,” Freya greeted with a smile, before lowering down her tea.

He was dressed down in comfortable athletic pants and a crisp white shirt, a casual contrast to her focused workspace. His dark, thick hair was tousled by the gentle evening breeze that had accompanied him into the room, creating a carefree yet appealing look.

Clementine did not even say a word. Instead, he inched toward the table. As he eased into the chair, it was as if the weight on his shoulders settled onto the wooden surface. The papers crinkled in his grip, telling silent tales of tension.

Freya's familiarity with her husband set off alarm bells in her mind, signaling that something was amiss.

"Want some tea at last?" Freya asked, hopeful for a change in the air.

Again, he did not bother to reply, his eyes fixed on a distant point.

"Hey, Clement?" she persisted, her voice carrying a tinge of concern.

Still, no response. His silence was becoming more palpable.

"Clementine!"

"Huh," he grunted, finally acknowledging her presence but with an absent mind.

"What's going on?" she pressed, sensing an invisible tension.

With a deliberate slowness, he unfolded the creased documents, placing them on the table with a care that contradicted the turmoil in his eyes. Finally, he looked up, and their gazes collided, his silent plea echoing through the room.

Her eyes lingered on the papers he placed atop the table. Even though she knew, somewhere in her heart, that she had an idea of what it was, she could not believe it. But her eyes slowly creeped towards and before she knew it, she was opening the document and line by line, she felt her heart shattering in an instant.

Her gaze fixated on the papers resting on the table. Deep down, she sensed a vague awareness of what they might contain, yet disbelief lingered. Despite her hesitation, her eyes unwillingly gravitated towards the documents. In an instant, she found herself flipping through the pages. Each word felt like a blow, and with every passing line, her heart crumbled.

Freya merely breathed out the air she did not realize she was holding until it just rushed out of her in one, shaky exhalation.

"What's going on?"

Oh…my...

Shit.

Shit.

She knew that look.

It was a dumper look.

"I should have told you earlier." His voice was low.

Freya went still, her heart twisting with sudden unbearable pressure.

“Tell me what, exactly?”

"I just…” He sighed. “I'm not feeling it, Iyah."

She could feel her heart hammering like a deranged woodpecker against her chest, ignoring the loud ringing in her ears as Freya confirmed that Clementine had indeed filed a divorce against her.

She stared blindly at the documents instead because she knew, from the sudden coldness of his voice, she just knew that she couldn't stand a chance.

“I haven’t been feeling it for a while.”

She blinked and blinked, her lips parting to draw some oxygen in after it left her lungs in a painful rush.

No air.

There is no air here now.

“Okay. Okay,” she said, clearing the lump in her throat. “So you, like, don’t want to do this anymore? Don’t want to do us?"

He did not answer.

“Is there someone else?” she asked, hating the tremors in her words.

"No," he says quickly. "I'd never cheat, Iyah, you know that."

Tears scalded her eyes and they trickled down her cheeks before she could brush them away. Blinking furiously to bat away her tears, she gave him a healthy glare.

“Then why the hell are you filing a divorce?” she shouted.

Clement's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, his words sharp as daggers. "Your cousin happened, Iyah. I made a promise, and I won't break it."

Freya's mind raced as she connected the dots. Her recently awakened cousin, a sudden burden on their marriage, had somehow led to this impending disaster.

"Clement, please!” “Freya ground out, her temper glowing hot. “We promised to support each other through thick and thin. This is just a rough patch."

Clement's frustration boiled over, and anger flashed in his eyes. "Ghad! What do you think of this awful marriage? Something fixable by a bloody band-aid? This isn't a rough patch, Iyah! This is you getting in the way of what I promised."

Tears welled up in Freya's eyes as she vehemently denied any wrongdoing. "I didn't cause the accident, Clement. You have to believe me!"

Clement, fueled by his anger, scoffed. His tone became more cutting, more merciless. "Believe you? When you're always at the center of chaos? I'm tired, Iyah. Tired of cleaning up after your messes, tired of living in constant turmoil."

He continued, his frustration turning into cruelty. "I can't bear it anymore. I never signed up for this, for a life of constant drama. I need peace, and I can't find it with you."

She felt it coming—that sharp but somehow hollow pain that blunted through her chest like the strike of a fist at the very center of her.

Freya, stunned by his harsh words, tried to reason. "But we can work through it. We always have."

Clement, his anger unabated, shook his head. "It's not that simple. You've dragged me into a life I never wanted. I need out, and if that means cutting ties with you, so be it."

"Please, Clement, don't do this. We can find another way.” Somehow, she hated the hopelessness in her voice, before whispering. “I love you.”

He did not seem to hear it. Or if he did, he clearly rejected it as his frustration was turning into a cruel dismissal, muttering, "Love isn't enough when it's drowning in chaos. Love isn't a magical fix when everything around us is falling apart. We're done, Iyah. I need a way out, and you can't be a part of my life anymore."

As he uttered those words, Freya sensed the finality in his tone, realizing that the path ahead held a painful separation she might not recover from.

Okay. Fine.

I gave up.

With trembling hands, Freya reached for the pen on the table, her fingers tracing the cold metal as if it held the key to salvation. The divorce papers lay before her, stark and final. The weight of the pen in her hand seemed to magnify the gravity of the moment, sealing the fate of a bond that had once felt unbreakable. She looked up at Clementine, eyes filled with pain, and signed the divorce papers.

When the signature was finally penned, Freya’s eyes remained fixed on the document for a lingering moment. It wasn't just ink on paper; it was the end of a chapter she had never anticipated closing.

Slowly, she looked up at the man she once loved with her all, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

"I need an hour." She paused. "To gather my things."

As Clement nodded, the room hung heavy with the realization of what had just transpired. "You can keep the villa if you want. It was always yours," he offered, attempting to extend a small semblance of comfort.

Freya, however, shook her head, rejecting the remnants of a life she no longer wished to claim.

"I don't want anything from you, Clementine."

The atmosphere shifted as Freya stepped away from the table, leaving the room that had witnessed the highs and lows of their shared existence. Each step towards their room was like a march through the corridors of defeat, the hollowness of the once-familiar space amplifying the echoes of their shattered love.

In their bedroom, the remnants of their life together seemed like a cruel joke to her. Clothes neatly hung; personal belongings scattered with familiarity. Each item told a story – a story that was now reaching its tragic conclusion. Freya gathered her things with a detachment that felt surreal, as if she were moving through the motions of someone else's life.

The echo of luggage wheels reverberated through the empty corridors, a haunting reminder of the life she was leaving behind. The once-warm home stood silent, its emptiness echoing the heartbreak that lingered in the air – a poignant testament to promises broken and love lost.

Freya hiccupped out a sob and step outside the villa. When she saw her car parked outside, she slammed its door and hastily inserted her keys, didn't even bother to heat the car's engine as she stomped her feet on the accelerator and drove away.

Her phone pinged with a notification and she saw a text from the jerk saying, 'Take care of yourself, Iyah.’

"Fuck you, Clementine von Iver."

She deleted the text with another curse and grabbed the steering wheel again only to realize that they were shaking wildly.

Freya dropped them back on her lap, and a little surge of panic settled because she suddenly could not see a thing, realizing she was in no state to drive.

And then, for some weird reason, that was when the tears come. All at once, they flood her eyes and are running down her cheeks as she made an ugly blubbering noise.

“Damn you, Clementine.”

Freya had expected to have no shortage of nightmares after the seemingly endless night she just had when she woke up the next day.

What a great moment to start someone’s day indeed.

Every memory from last night was still vivid in her mind, each one flashing behind her closed eyes in perfect succession with the rest—her perfectly crafted marriage, her cousin's accident, her divorce with Clementine—as she remembered every mixed-up emotion that rioted for the prime spot in her heart, even the ones she did not want to acknowledge and name.

All the revelations that were dumped unto her like some unwarranted baggage came rushing into her all at once, the distress of that memory registered without a delay as Freya stopped herself to scream like a banshee and held her breath until she slowly regained her composure, only letting her eyes move to take in what was around her.

The minimalist furnishing, the brown, cream, and white color scheme she liked so much, and the brushed metal and wood accents—despite definitely looking comforting and homey—did not appease her growing unease.

C’mon, Freya von Iver. Now’s not the time to wallow in self-pity. Get a move on.

She stopped.

I am not a 'Von Iver' now, aint I?

Get a fucking move on.

Deciding that the rational part of her was right and that depression so early in the morning was not an ideal activity to start her day. And despite sleeping so late last night, her growling empty stomach woke her up, making Freya's head fuzzy due to lack of sleep.

With a heavy limb, Freya pushed herself up on her elbows and spied the analog alarm clock sitting on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

07:20

Freya shuffled her feet and stepped out of her room, sorely tempted to raid the kitchen for food until the smell of sizzling bacon hit her nostrils. Tiptoeing her way through the living room, Freya stopped short when the kitchen and dining area came into view.

Her maid, Melinda, was a short old woman in her fifty's, who's more like a mother to her than anyone else. She was a complete opposite of her, warm and friendly, despite losing almost everything in her life, including her husband.

She was not far different from you now, was she?

Melinda was standing by the kitchen island, wearing a white ruffled apron over her faded yellow cardigan and slacks ensemble, ladling what appeared to be burnt slices of bacon into the porcelain plate. She probably heard her footsteps because she turned back and caught her gaze, surprise registered on her expression as she groggily made her way over to the dining table.

“Good morning, Ma'am,” the old woman greeted with a bright smile, and Freya visibly flinched from her obvious enthusiasm. “You’re early.”

Someone’s in a very good mood today.

“I’m starving,” Freya remarked dryly as she gluttonously eyed the plate of bacon in Melinda's hand. “Is that for me?”

Melinda laughed before she placed the plate in front of her. “Sure. The princess should eat to regain her strength back. Now eat, and I know you still have some errands to do.”

Freya snorted and picked up her fork. Aside from the burnt bacon, the maid also prepared porridge with fresh cream and butter corn, boiled eggs, and bread, with her black coffee on the side. She started shoveling the strips of bacon into her mouth and licked the oil on her lips before giving Melinda an expectant look.

"What is it?"

The air in the quaint dining room seemed to still as Freya's question lingered, almost hesitant to breach the surface of the unspoken turmoil. Across the table, the old woman, Melinda, looked up from her task with a concerned glance, her eyes holding a depth of understanding that transcended mere curiosity.

"Did something happen, Ma'am?"

Freya, caught off guard by the unexpected inquiry, visibly froze. Slowly, she lowered her fork, the clinking against the porcelain plate now replaced by the heavy silence that enveloped the room. Her eyes met Melinda's, a mixture of confusion and vulnerability reflected in her gaze.

"Why?" Freya swallowed, her voice betraying a fragile attempt at composure. "Why did you ask?"

Melinda, her hands momentarily stilled, shrugged with a hint of nonchalance. But beneath the casual exterior was a keen perception, a silent acknowledgment that she had observed more than just the surface.

"Nothing. It's just that I saw your luggage in your room when I cleaned it early this morning. And..." She paused, as if delicately choosing her words. "And you can tell me, Ma'am. You are like my daughter, and I hate to see you sad."

A delicate tug on Freya's heart accompanied Melinda's words, an unexpected surge of emotion at the genuine concern emanating from the older woman. It was a stark contrast to the unfolding chaos in Freya's personal life. Suddenly, she remembered Catherine. Now that she and Clementine had been divorced, it was inevitable for them to cut ties with her. But having the thought of not seeing Clement’s grandma made her sad. Afterall, she was the only one in the Ivers who showed genuine compassion to her.

Freya felt something tugged in her chest, feeling the genuine affection of the older woman to her. Suddenly, she remembered Aunt Catherine. Now that she and Clementine had been divorced, it was inevitable for them to cut ties with her. But having the thought of not seeing Clement’s grandma made her sad. Afterall, she was the only one in the Ivers who showed genuine compassion to her.

“Clement…” Freya's voice wavered, the weight of the impending revelation pressing upon her. Clearing her throat in an attempt to steady herself, she swallowed hard, as if the physical act could halt the emotional cascade threatening to spill forth. “Clement filed for divorce. I…I will be living here from now on.”

Melinda’s face contorted into a mixture of surprise and disbelief, followed by concern. Freya stopped herself from crying when the woman’s papery hands touched hers in a comforting gesture.

“You can tell me all about it when you’re ready, my dear” the woman said. “For now, don’t force yourself too much.”

Freya nodded. “Thank you, Aunt Mel.”

“Such a small thing, Ma'am.” She smiled. “Now, finish your breakfast and you’ll be late.”

*

The charming Bistro Alfresco embraced Freya in a warm, inviting atmosphere, making her temporarily forget her growing irritation. Soft hues of earthy tones adorned the walls, accentuated by vintage-inspired artworks and Instagram-able paintings. Wooden tables stood proudly under the ambient glow of pendant lights, creating an intimate setting for coffee enthusiasts and clandestine conversations alike.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, rich and enticing, enveloped the cozy space. Baristas behind the polished counter worked with precision, orchestrating the ballet of coffee creation as the hiss of steam and the rhythmic hum of grinding beans joined the ever-busy stream of customers.

The interior design exuded a rustic elegance, seamlessly blending modernity with the timeless appeal of classic coffee houses. Exposed brick walls, while plush cushions added comfort to the eclectic array of seating. Mellow jazz notes wafted through the air, intertwining with the subdued chatter of patrons engaged in hushed conversations. Open, yet private. The very reason why she and her assistant liked to hang out in here for a go-to coffee.

As Freya settled into her seat, the steaming cup before her promised comfort. These days, teas were all she could drink at the villa, thanks to her ex-husband.

Across from her, Erin fidgeted nervously, a stark contrast to the serene ambiance of the coffee shop.

Her gaze, laden with regret, refused to meet Freya's, and with a hesitant exhale, she began, "Miss Iver, I'm afraid I can't take on that case you mentioned." The weight of her words hung in the air, a counterpoint to the harmonious blend of coffee notes and subdued conversations that painted the backdrop of the quaint establishment.

Freya raised an eyebrow, curiosity etching her features.

"Why not? It's not like you to turn down a potential client."

Erin sighed, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's a conflict of interest. The case involves two businessmen, and one of them is Mr. Devereux. He wants us to go against Mr. von Iver."

Freya's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and realization washing over her.

"Clement?”

Erin nodded solemnly. "Yes. Mr. Devereux wants your help against your

... ex-husband.”

Freya leaned back, contemplating the implications. "And why would Mr. Devereux think I'd take a case against Clement?" No matter how jerk he was.

Erin hesitated before admitting, "There's a substantial sum involved. We'd miss out on a significant fee if we turn it down."

Freya chuckled, a bitter undertone in her laughter.

"Money over morals, huh?"

Erin looked down, guilt coloring her expression. "I'm sorry, Miss Iver. It's just business."

As Freya pondered the situation, Erin couldn't help but worry about her boss's recently finalized divorce from Clementine.

"Are you sure you want to get involved, especially considering... well, everything?"

Freya stopped for a moment, weighing Erin’s words.

Sure, the divorce left an ugly taste in her mouth, not to mention in her name and reputation. But sometimes, there were times when she felt like she missed something in those years that she chose Clementine over everything else—her career, her hobbies, her preference, her…everything.

Freya's eyes gleamed with newfound determination.

"Erin, my life is finally fully in my control. If I can help Mr. Devereux and get justice for him, why not?"

Erin felt a sense of relief, congratulating Freya on gaining her freedom after sacrificing so much for Jordy. The two of them chatted amiably, their conversation temporarily lifting Freya's spirits.

The harmonious buzz of the coffee shop abruptly hushed as the door chimed, indicating an unexpected arrival—Clementine, the unwelcome specter from Freya's past, and his new companion, Callista Hayes, draped in a pristine white that seemed to mock the purity she could never genuinely embody.

Freya's once-relaxed demeanor transformed into a picture of tension and resentment, her eyes narrowing into focused slits as she scrutinized the uninvited couple. Callista, seemingly oblivious to the palpable animosity, exuded an air of calculated confidence, her white ensemble a stark contrast to the complex shades of the emotions swirling in the room. The bitter taste of history lingered on Freya's tongue, a bitter reminder of Callista's past attempts to inflict pain during the tumultuous divorce.

Did she really think that I wasn’t aware she was the one who sent me those intimate photos of her and my cheater of a husband?

Erin sensed the change in Freya's demeanor as she cast a dark look towards the unwelcome pair.

Clement, with an air of arrogance, noted Freya's presence. "Why, Freya, if you wanted to talk, you could've just called."

Callista, the picture of innocence, sweetly greeted Freya. "Oh, Freya, it's been so long. I've made a miraculous recovery, as you can see."

Freya forced a smile, masking her disdain. "I'm delighted to witness your swift return to health."

The cafe's atmosphere buzzed with hushed conversations and curious glances. But Freya did not pay them no mind, for her gaze was focused on Clement.

With a cold edge to his voice, Clement warned Freya with a low tone, whispering. "Don't make things difficult, Freya. You're no longer a part of my life."

The morning sun filtered through Freya's bedroom window, casting a warm, golden glow on her face as she gracefully awakened to the promise of a new day. The night before had passed uneventfully, and Freya nodded nonchalantly, a serene indifference enveloping her as she contemplated the well-being of her estranged husband. The impending divorce, once a heavy burden, now seemed to have lifted the weight of their shared history from her shoulders.

Having slept peacefully, unencumbered by the worries of losing Clement, Freya arose to the gentle melody of her morning alarm, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. The sun seemed to dance on the walls of her opulent villa, the sky—which she only now noticed as she was busy burying her face on her pillows to hide her puffy eyes for crying all night.

Glancing at the breakfast table, Freya's lips curled into a contented smile at the prospect of indulging in her preferred American breakfast. In the past, she had gracefully accommodated Clement's penchant for a traditional English morning repast. However, in this moment of emancipation, she reveled in the simple joy of savoring the flavors that resonated with her own taste.

As Freya approached the dining table, the inviting aroma of fresh coffee and the delectable scent of pancakes and crispy bacon embraced her senses. Melinda greeted her with a warm smile. Their laughter reverberated through the air, filling the room with a sense of camaraderie that transcended the roles of employer and employee.

"Good morning, Melinda," Freya chimed, her voice carrying the melody of freedom. "What delightful breakfast do we have today?"

Melinda chuckled, her eyes crinkling with genuine affection. "Well, Madam, I thought we'd start the day with some fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, and your favorite freshly brewed coffee. Seemed like a perfect American breakfast kind of morning, don't you think?"

Freya's eyes lit up with delight, grateful for the thoughtful gesture. "Absolutely. I missed enjoying my American breakfast. No more compromises, just the way I like it!"

They spent that crisp morning wrapped in the light of laughter and the warmth of candid conversations. After Freya's meeting with Erin to discuss a potential client, she felt a surge of courage to bare it down in one go. Uncorking a bottle of wine, she decided it was time to delve into the intricacies of her divorce and the daunting alimony that Clement had demanded. The presence of the older woman, Melinda, proved to be a fortunate solace.

As a seasoned lawyer who felt confident defending in the court, Freya was not known to take advices since she was the one who gave them to her clients. However, that morning, she was very much willing to take whatever the older woman was willing to give. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a gentle glow on the table where they sat, and as Freya shared the intricacies of her tumultuous divorce, she realized the value of the five decades of life experience that Melinda brought to the conversation.

In a role reversal that felt surprisingly liberating, Freya discovered herself as the eager recipient of advice, humbled by Melinda's wisdom and the genuine lack of haughtiness in her demeanor. The air between them buzzed with the clinking of glasses and the unspoken understanding that, in this moment of vulnerability, Freya was not alone.

“Thank you so much for your time, Aunt Melinda,” Freya said warmly.

“No problem, little Miss. Whenever you need something, don’t hesitate to call Old Mel.”

Freya smiled. “Oh, c’mon. You’re barely old!”

“Oh, you.” The old maid playfully swatted her hand. “Well, you need to get dress now or you’ll be late. You said that you have a meeting with “Miss Erin, right?”

“Oh, crap. I nearly forgot. I’ll leave you to it, Aunt, okay? I will get ready now.”

It took her an hour or so to prepare and dress. As Freya stood before the mirror, preparing to face the day, she assessed her reflection with a discerning eye. Dressed in a professional yet stylish ensemble befitting her role as a lawyer, she exuded a blend of confidence and sophistication.

Freya's tailored black blazer, adorned with a subtle pinstripe pattern, accentuated her slender figure. Paired with a knee-length, charcoal gray pencil skirt, the outfit struck a perfect balance between professionalism and contemporary flair. A crisp, white button-down shirt underneath added a touch of classic elegance, complemented by a silver pendant necklace that dangled subtly against the fabric.

Her well-manicured hands, adorned with a few simple silver rings, held a leather briefcase containing the essential documents for the day. Freya's choice of black, high-heeled pumps added a subtle power stance to her demeanor, the one she worked so hard to maintain.

Taking a moment to appreciate her appearance, Freya acknowledged the soft waves cascading down her shoulders, a result of a deliberate yet effortlessly chic hairstyle. Her makeup was understated yet polished, emphasizing her features without overshadowing her natural beauty. A sweep of mascara highlighted her expressive eyes, and a touch of rosy lipstick added a hint of color to her lips.

“I’m ready,” she said to herself, and walked out the room.

Walking towards her car, Freya dropped her briefcase at the passenger’s and effortlessly maneuvered the car out the garage. She then drove heading Bistro Alfresco, where Erin originally scheduled her to meet one of the legal representatives from Devereux Conglomerate.

The sunlit coffee shop echoed with the soft hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of cups as Freya entered. The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Anticipating a meeting with Erin, she was taken aback when she saw a familiar face instead.

"Kit?" The word escaped Freya's lips, a mixture of surprise and disbelief as her eyes met his.

"Frey!" Kit's face lit up, and he rose from his seat, causing nearby patrons to glance curiously. With an infectious energy, he closed the distance between them, enveloping Freya in a warm, tight hug. "I miss you! Long time no see!"

Freya's initial surprise melted into a radiant smile as she returned the embrace, feeling the genuine warmth of an old friend. The familiarity of Kit's presence brought a rush of memories, and she could not help but reciprocate with a tight squeeze before they let go of the hug.

“Kit, how are you? You looked great.”

“Well, you’re the one to speak,” he said with a boyish smile. “You literally haven’t aged. How’s life?”

“Good as new leaf. I am so happy that you’re here. You’re working in the Devereux now, huh?”

The man, sporting an impish grin, leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his tousled hair as they settled into a cozy corner of the coffee shop. The ambiance was filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, complementing the muted chatter and gentle hum of background music.

Freya could not help but notice the mischievous glint in Kit's eyes, a familiar sight that brought back memories of their mutual history way back their law residency.

As they delved into conversation, the man's animated gestures punctuated their discussion. His hands swirled in the air, adding flair to his stories, and occasionally, he'd punctuate a point by tapping the tabletop with an infectious energy. Freya found herself caught up in the lively exchange, completely unaware of the man perched discreetly inside a sleek, black car parked near the coffee shop who surveilled Freya's every move. With tinted windows concealing his identity, the observer sat in silent vigilance, peering through the glass at Freya and Kit engaged in conversation.

From the shadows of the car's interior, the watcher noted every detail meticulously—the rise and fall of Freya's laughter, the animated gestures she exchanged with Kit, and the genuine warmth in her expressions. A small, sophisticated camera lens protruded subtly from the dashboard, capturing the nuances of their interaction.

"Subject engaged in lively conversation, showing no signs of suspicion," he reported in hushed tones, keeping his eyes fixed on Freya through the windshield.

On the other end of the line, a commanding voice responded, "Maintain your position. I need real-time updates on any noteworthy developments."

*

(Copy, Sir.)

The call was cut off.

“Bloody hell!”

Clement's frustration swelled, exacerbated by a phone call from his hired surveillance operative who discreetly trailed Freya. The report painted a picture of her animated conversation with a man, igniting a spark of jealousy within him.

As Clement lurked in the shadows, unseen and unheard, the sight of Freya's radiant smile in the company of another man fueled his inner turmoil. Unbeknownst to her, Clement grappled with a maelstrom of emotions—regret, resentment, and an unsettling question about her true feelings for him.

“The hell are you doing, Iyah?” he muttered under his breath. “So eager to run into another man’s arms, huh?”