4

Freya

I rose from the sofa and smoothed my skirt, keeping my hands steady. I turned and walked toward the door, each step measured and unhurried, as if nothing of consequence had happened tonight.

The moment the door closed behind me, I allowed myself to exhale.

Kelan was waiting in the corridor outside.

When he saw me emerge, his eyes brightened briefly before dimming again. I knew that subtle shift too well—pleasure and displeasure compressed onto a single face.

"Why are you out already?" He lowered his voice and hurried over.

"Mr. Gray dismissed me."

He stared at me for several seconds, his mouth twitching without forming a smile.

"Of course." His tone was flat. "What could he possibly want from you? Who do you think you are?"

I didn't respond.

"Freya," he sighed, his voice softening like someone coaxing a lost child, "look at yourself tonight. Spilling wine, making a fool of yourself in front of all those people—do you know what they think of you?"

He loved using degradation as a means of control. My nails bit into my palms as I swallowed the retort rising in my throat.

"I just want you to understand," he continued, "out there, you're nothing. Those circles, those people—you can't survive among them. Only by my side can I shield you from all this. You understand?"

The man who'd just tried to pimp me out as someone's mistress was now claiming to protect me. The irony was rich.

Every time I tried to stand straight, he bent my back. Every time I started to rise, he pressed down on my shoulders and told me this was where I belonged.

"I understand, Uncle." I looked up and gave him an obedient smile, eyes clear and without edge. "You're right."

His expression finally relaxed. He patted my shoulder. "Good. Go freshen up. Don't let anyone see you like this."

I nodded and turned toward the restroom.

---

The corridor stretched long, footsteps muffled by carpet, the silence oppressive. Suddenly, a figure lunged toward me.

Startled, I found myself face-to-face with Field's punchable expression. His face was flushed, eyes glazed with lust, fixed on me with the disgusting adhesiveness of frog saliva.

"Mr. Field, please remember your position." I shoved him away forcefully and shook my hand in revulsion.

He licked his lips twice, chuckled, and made an exaggerated gesture of courtesy, as if the previous moment had been my hallucination.

I clenched my fists and walked away.

One thing after another kept hitting me. This night was turning into a disaster.

I reached the washbasin, turned on the cold water, and pressed a handful against the back of my neck. In the mirror, irritation simmered in my eyes while a false smile curved my lips.

Well done, Frey. The more submissive you appear, the more their guard drops. I consoled myself with this thought, even as exhaustion weighed down my limbs. I supposed I would tire eventually.

I was still bent over, drying my face, when the door opened behind me.

I didn't look in the mirror, assuming it was another female guest—then a hand braced itself on the edge of the sink.

"What a coincidence."

I recognized that voice. My stomach plummeted, nausea surging up my throat.

Field. That perpetually rutting bastard. Like a ghost that wouldn't leave me alone.

I lifted my eyes to the mirror. He leaned close to my neck, his smile casual, but his gaze was pinned on me, raking from top to bottom without pretense, an expression of obsession on his face.

"I think you've come to the wrong place," I said.

"No mistake." He smiled, toying with a strand of hair by my ear, his fingertips deliberately grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. "I came here for you."

I tried to step aside. He shifted with me, blocking me into the narrow gap between the sink and the wall. Close enough that I could smell the alcohol on him, along with a stench I found revolting.

"Do you know how beautiful you look tonight?" He lowered his head, voice dropping. "I've been watching you all evening."

My back went rigid.

His hand settled on my waist—light, but steady—pulling me slightly toward him. I could feel it—he wasn't planning to stop at looking. The alcohol had emboldened him to try something reckless.

I shoved all my disgust to the bottom of my mind and forced my body to relax. I leaned toward him slightly, tilted my head up, let my gaze turn languid, and curved my lips.

"Mr. Field," I began slowly, lowering my voice with a hint of laziness, "does Tracy know you're here looking for me?"

His eyes lit up, taking this as encouragement. His grip tightened.

Just then, the restroom door opened again.

My eyes flicked over.

Leopold.

He stepped inside, his gaze landing on Field and me, pausing for one second—my hand resting on Field's chest, the two of us standing close, me looking up with that curved smile still on my lips.

His expression held no ripple of emotion. He simply looked once, then stepped back, preparing to leave.

My heart sank. My face burned inexplicably, and panic fluttered through me. What had he thought just now when he saw us?

I wanted to explain, but I didn't. And there was no need to.

Because I couldn't let him know what I'd actually been doing—if I explained, I'd have to clarify what Field was doing to me, and I'd once again become the pathetic character who needed rescuing in front of this man.

Besides—he didn't care.

His eyes held nothing—just ordinary indifference, ordinary disinterest. He probably assumed I was that kind of person: barely escaping him tonight, only to turn around and flirt with another man in a restroom.

A voice in my head said: Let him go. You're strangers anyway. You don't want to see him again.

I got my wish. He turned and left.

The door closed.

Something cold and hard lodged itself in my stomach.

Then I turned back to Field.

He still hadn't realized anything, still smiling, his hand on my waist sliding downward as he prepared to continue his audacity.

Before his smile could fade, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it outward.

His expression changed abruptly. "You—"

I shoved him into the farthest stall and locked the door.

He was taller and stronger than me, but he was drunk, and he'd never expected me to fight back.

That was enough.

Three minutes later, I pushed open the restroom door and walked out.

My hair was reasonably tidy, my lipstick barely smudged, my dress intact. Only a scratch on the back of my hand from his struggling. Nothing serious.

I walked away from the restroom, pausing at a corner in the corridor to pin back a loosened strand of hair.

"Need help?"

I turned.

Fox Nelson stood in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a composed expression, something at the corner of his mouth—curiosity, assessment, hard to define, but not malicious.

His gaze fell on the scratch on my hand. He didn't comment, then looked back at my face.

"Apologies, I was just passing through," he said lightly. "Besides, I didn't see anything."

Which meant he'd seen everything. I looked at him without speaking.

His lips curved slightly, his handsome features growing even gentler. His eyes were truly beautiful—like a calm, deep pool filled with steadiness and affection. Of course, those eyes looked at everyone with affection, including me.

I didn't take the bait and walked past him. But he called after me: "I heard you're a nurse?"