Page 36 of Checks & Bonds

Freya opened her mouth to speak, but I stepped forward and grabbed her chin firmly.

"Unless you want me to show you what you can do with that mouth," I growled, my grip tightening slightly, "you won't say anything."

Her eyes blazed with emerald fury, filled with hate that sent a thrill through me. For a moment, we locked gazes, the intensity between us almost palpable.

I released her abruptly and turned away, stomping out of the room without another word.

11

Freya

The room Henry gave me sprawled out like an overgrown mansion of its own. High ceilings stretched above me, adorned with intricate moldings and a chandelier that looked more like a cascade of crystal tears. Velvet drapes, heavy and deep burgundy, framed the windows, blocking out most of the daylight and leaving the room in a perpetual twilight.

The bed, a massive four-poster with a canopy of sheer silk, sat in the center like a throne. It was dressed in satin sheets and an absurd amount of pillows. I wondered if anyone ever actually slept there or if it was just for show.

A sitting area occupied one corner, complete with plush armchairs and a coffee table bearing a vase of fresh lilies. The scent permeated the room, reminding me of my mother’s garden back home, another place where I had felt trapped despite its beauty.

The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes that I doubted anyone ever read. A grand fireplace took up one wall, cold and dark despite the firewoodneatly stacked beside it. I could see my reflection in the ornate mirror above it—pale and small in this cavernous space.

I moved towards the windows, pulling back one of the heavy drapes to peer outside. The view was breathtaking: rolling hills, dense forests, and the distant shimmer of a lake. It should have been calming, but all it did was remind me how far I was from freedom.

My fingers brushed against the mahogany desk near the window, covered in writing supplies—fine parchment, ink bottles, quills—all untouched. Who wrote with these? Was this something his grandfather indulged in? Another display piece.

I wandered into the adjoining bathroom. It was almost obscene in its opulence: marble floors, gold fixtures, a clawfoot tub big enough to swim in. There were scented candles placed strategically around it and fluffy white towels monogrammed with Henry's family crest.

Stepping back into the main room, I felt a wave of familiarity wash over me. Despite its grandeur, it was just another gilded cage. Just like my room back home—a place meant to impress others rather than provide comfort for its inhabitant.

I could hear Henry's voice echoing in my head from our argument earlier—how he thought claiming me would solve everything. As if gilded bars could ever make captivity more bearable.

I dropped my bags by the door. The thud echoed in the quiet room, emphasizing the emptiness. At least I didn’t have to share this space with Henry. That was one small mercy in this whole mess.

I moved toward the bed, sinking down onto the soft mattress. Sighing, I leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The ornate light fixture hung above me like a relic from another era, casting soft shadows on the walls. Everything inhere screamed permanence, yet all I felt was an urgent need to change.

My gaze wandered back to my bags, still sitting by the door. They were packed hastily with clothes and essentials, as if some part of me had hoped for an escape route that never materialized.

The thought brought a bitter smile to my lips. At least here, in this room that was mine alone, I could pretend for a moment that everything was within my control.

I sat up, the plush bed making the motion feel sluggish. Sighing, I got up and walked over to my bags, dragging them across the room to the foot of the bed.

Unzipping the first bag, I pulled out a few dresses and hung them in the cavernous closet. Each hanger clinked softly against the rod, a hollow sound in the quiet room. The second bag contained more casual clothes—sweaters, jeans, and a few pairs of shoes. I lined them up neatly in the bottom of the closet.

As I unpacked, I tried to ignore the lump forming in my throat. The silence pressed in on me from all sides, making each movement feel exaggerated, each breath too loud. I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

The last bag was filled with personal items—books, a journal, and a framed photo of my parents and me at the lake. I placed it on the nightstand beside the bed, tracing my fingers over their smiling faces. The tears that had been threatening finally broke free, blurring my vision as I tried to blink them away.

I sank back down onto the bed, clutching the photo to my chest. The weight of everything crashed down on me—my engagement to Henry, this suffocating room, and most of all, how trapped I felt. The tears came harder now, each sob shaking my body as I curled up on the mattress.

I hated it here. Hated every ornate detail that screamed opulence but offered no comfort. Hated how this place wassupposed to be some kind of reward when it felt more like a prison. Most of all, I hated that Henry thought this was what I wanted—that he could claim me and make everything right with luxury and grandeur.

The tears didn’t stop; they poured out until my throat felt raw and my eyes stung. My cries echoed in the empty room, bouncing off those high ceilings like ghosts mocking me.

Eventually, exhaustion took over. My sobs quieted into soft whimpers as I lay there, staring at nothing in particular. The bed’s softness seemed to swallow me whole as if it were trying to offer some twisted version of comfort.

I hugged myself tighter, feeling small and alone despite being surrounded by so much space and opulence.

I closed my eyes, but Henry's image haunted me. The memory of his touch in the car was seared into my mind. His hands on my skin had ignited something primal, something I loathed myself for feeling. It wasn’t just anger; it was a betrayal by my own body.

Every time I thought about it, a wave of shame crashed over me. I had given in, despite every fiber of my being screaming against it. My body had betrayed me, responding to him when all I wanted was to push him away, to reclaim some semblance of control over my life.

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