5

Freya

I stopped in my tracks. The corridor stretched long, footsteps muffled by carpet, wall sconces casting warm halos of light that couldn't reach inside me.

In the second I froze, my mind raced—how much did he know, how long had he been standing there, had he realized I'd beaten Field?

I turned around.

Fox Nelson stood in the corridor, back against the wall, posture casual, as if waiting for an old friend rather than having just witnessed something less than dignified.

"Yes, sir. I'm a nurse." I answered frankly. There was nothing to hide.

"Freya Raphael," he began unhurriedly, a faint curve at his lips, "niece of Kelan Fergus, licensed private nurse at St. Mary's Hospital. Though you've only worked five years, your ratings are exceptional." He paused. "You're a remarkable woman."

I looked at him without speaking.

For him to know my background so thoroughly, he'd either investigated beforehand or made specific inquiries tonight. Either way, this wasn't spontaneous.

He withdrew a business card from his inner pocket and placed it in my palm, movements unhurried, as if this were the most ordinary transaction. "My mother hasn't been well lately. Emotional issues—the doctor diagnosed depressive tendencies. She needs dedicated care, both companionship and nursing." He said, "I'm considering hiring a private nurse for in-home service."

Hearing his purpose, I quietly relaxed. So he wasn't here to cause trouble.

I glanced down at the card. Fox Nelson, embossed lettering, thick stock, substantial in hand. The reverse bore a line of small print—the name of a well-known investment firm.

"I need to think about it." I said. Kelan would interfere with wherever I took a position.

"Of course," he nodded, "no rush. Contact me when you've decided." His gaze was composed, without a hint of pressure, which actually put me at ease.

I thought he truly was a gentleman.

I tucked the card into my clutch's hidden pocket, gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment, then walked past him toward the main hall.

The ballroom still hummed with activity, everyone busy networking, faces wearing those fake smiles, eyes harboring calculations, trying to extract useful information from one another.

Crystal chandeliers illuminated every smiling face with brightness. Champagne gathered tiny bubbles on glass rims. The scents of fur and perfume mingled together—luxurious, yet somewhat suffocating.

I stepped back into this sea of voices, my face resuming that obedient, soft, harmless smile.

Kelan appeared beside me almost immediately.

"Where did you disappear to?" His rebuke came in a low voice, tone calm.

"The restroom," I said.

He swept his gaze over me from head to toe. No obvious emotion, yet I felt every inch of me had been examined. Then his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes lingering a few extra seconds on the red mark on my hand, though ultimately he said nothing.

He turned sideways and placed a hand on my shoulder with measured weight, steering me in another direction.

"Tracy's over there. Come along."

Tracy stood in the center of a group, her laughter loud and forceful, as if afraid no one would notice her. I averted my gaze, lowered my head to suppress the twist of my lips, and quietly retreated to the crowd's edge.

Kelan introduced her to acquaintances. "This is my daughter Tracy. I'm sure many of you have heard of her. Tracy has exceptional talent in painting. Next month, her solo exhibition opens officially at Northshore Gallery." He patted Tracy's shoulder, unable to conceal his pride. "You must all attend."

A chorus of polished exclamations rippled through the crowd.

"Goodness, your daughter is truly extraordinary, and so young."

"A genius. A real genius."

"Your family never ceases to impress."

Tracy's smile stretched higher. She glanced sideways at me, something sharp flashing in her eyes before reverting to that delicate demeanor. "You're all too kind. I still have so far to go."

I stood at the crowd's periphery, holding a champagne flute, maintaining that safe curve at my lips, while my mind turned to another matter—most of those paintings had been ghostwritten by me.

I'd painted those landscapes at sixteen. Kelan had me copy a batch of old works, calling it practice, claiming it would help me grasp technique. I thought it was just one of his methods of controlling me. Later I gradually understood—he'd kept those paintings for a purpose. Pricing, provenance, those clear brushstrokes concealing an accounting logic impossible to trace, washing money in, flowing it out, spotless and untraceable.

And the signature on the gallery walls bore Tracy's name.

I took a shallow sip of champagne and said nothing, simply standing there quietly, accompanying them in being fawned over, accompanying Kelan's satisfied smile, accompanying Tracy in receiving praise she didn't deserve.

"Freya's such a good girl," Kelan suddenly turned to look at me, smiling, voice low enough only I could hear. "Standing there so happy for Tracy. Very good."

This was praise, and a warning. He feared I was unhappy inside, feared I might expose that Tracy's paintings were my work.

I wouldn't lose my temper. After all, those paintings had already been tainted, unclean. When things went wrong, Tracy could shoulder that responsibility.

"Of course I'm happy Tracy's talented." I lifted my eyes and smiled at Tracy, lips curving obediently, gaze devoid of warmth.

Tracy lowered her eyes and tossed back a triumphant smile. This was her moment of pride.

The disruption came suddenly, so suddenly I didn't immediately process it.

Field pushed through from the side of the crowd. His hair was disheveled, his tie crooked, the smile gone from his face, eyes carrying a mix of embarrassment and an indistinct darkness, like a drowned dog shut out yet unwilling to accept defeat.

"Mr. Kelan," he spoke, voice not loud, but several nearby people heard, "your niece Freya assaulted me!"

The air went silent for about two seconds.

I didn't move, merely lifted my eyes and looked at him calmly.

He looked back at me, his gaze mixing hatred, embarrassment, and a hint of threat. He thought I'd panic.

Tracy reacted first, with astonishing speed.

"What?" She whipped around to face me, her previous smile vanishing completely. "Field, what are you saying? She—she had the audacity to hit you!"

"In the restroom," Field adjusted his shirt, lowering his voice. "I just said hello, and she suddenly attacked me. My wrist still hurts." He showed Tracy his wrist as he spoke, revealing a faint reddish mark. "I didn't want to make a scene. After all, I'm a gentleman—I was willing to overlook it since she's a woman. But she shouldn't have struck me while my guard was down. This seriously damaged my dignity!"

Tracy's eyes immediately reddened.

That was her way. Tears came faster than any reasoning. No matter who stood before her, no matter whether there was actually a problem, as long as Field frowned even slightly, her emotions could reach their peak within three seconds. She'd maintained her three-year relationship with Field using this technique, probably believing the same method could solve every problem in the world.

"Freya," she turned and grabbed my arm, eyes vicious, demanding, "you bitch, were you seducing him in the restroom!"