4

Freya

I stood up from the sofa, smoothed my skirt, and didn't let my hands tremble. I turned and walked toward the door, each step steady and slow, as if carefree, as if nothing important had happened tonight at all.

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

Kelan was waiting in the corridor outside.

When he saw me come out, his eyes lit up first, then dimmed again. I was too familiar with that subtle change—happiness and unhappiness pressed together on one face.

"Why are you out so soon?" He lowered his voice and walked over quickly.

"Mr. Gray told me to come out."

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

"That figures." He said, his tone calm. "What could you possibly get from him? Who do you think you are?"

I didn't respond.

"Freya," he sighed, his voice becoming very gentle, like coaxing a lost child, "look at yourself tonight. You spilled wine, made a fool of yourself, in front of so many people—do you know what they think of you?"

He loved achieving control over me through suppression. My nails dug into my palms as I held back the words I wanted to retort with.

"I just want you to understand," he continued, "outside, you are nothing. Those occasions, those people—you simply can't handle them. Only by my side can I shield you from all this. Do you understand?"

A relative who tried to send me to be someone else's mistress was now telling me he would protect me from wind and rain. How truly ironic.

Every time I tried to stand straight, you came to bend my back. Every time I was about to emerge, you came to press down on my shoulders, telling me this was where I belonged.

"I understand, Uncle." I raised my head and showed him an obedient smile, my eyes clean without any edge. "You're right."

His expression finally softened somewhat. He patted my shoulder. "Alright, go clean yourself up. Don't let people see you like this."

I nodded, turned and walked toward the restroom.

The corridor was long, footsteps muffled in the carpet, quiet to the point of panic. Suddenly, a figure darted toward me.

I was startled and saw Field's punchable face. His complexion was flushed, his eyes misty like he was in heat, his gaze locked tightly on me, sticky and disgusting like frog saliva.

"Mr. Field, please don't forget your position." I pushed him away forcefully, shaking my hand in disgust.

He licked his lips twice, chuckled, and made a gesture of invitation, as if everything just now had been my hallucination.

I clenched my fists and turned to leave.

One thing after another hit me—what a terrible night.

I walked to the sink, turned on the cold water, cupped some and pressed it to the back of my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror—irritation ready to burst from my eyes, yet my mouth wore a false smile.

Good job, Freya. The more submissive the posture, the more it makes them lower their guard. I comforted myself this way, but felt my body growing weak. I thought I might still get tired.

I was lowering my head to wipe the water when the door behind me opened.

I didn't look in the mirror, thinking it was some female guest coming in—then a hand braced against the edge of the sink.

"What a coincidence."

I recognized that voice. My stomach plummeted, and a wave of nausea surged up from my throat.

It was Field, that guy who only knew how to be in heat. Like a ghost that wouldn't go away!

I looked up at him in the mirror. He leaned near my neck, smiling carelessly, but his eyes were fixed on me from top to bottom, unconcealed, showing an infatuated expression.

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

"No mistake." He smiled, playing with the hair falling by my ear, his fingertips deliberately touching the sensitive back of my neck. "I came looking for you."

I tried to move aside, but his body followed, blocking me in the narrow space between the sink and the wall. Close enough that I could smell the alcohol on him, his body emanating a stench I found revolting.

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

My back tensed up.

His hand fell on my waist—not heavy, but steady, pulling me slightly toward him. I felt it—he hadn't planned to let this go. Just looking wasn't satisfying enough; emboldened by alcohol, he wanted to do something bold.

I pressed all my disgust to the bottom of my mind and made my body relax. I leaned toward him a little, raised my head, let my eyes become languid, and curved up the corners of my mouth.

"Mr. Field," I began slowly, lowering my voice with a lazy tone, "does Tracy know you came looking for me?"

His eyes lit up, thinking I was cooperating with him, and his hand tightened.

Just then, the restroom door opened again.

I glanced over from the corner of my eye.

Leopold.

He stepped in, his gaze falling on Field and me, pausing for a second—my hand was on Field's chest, the two of us very close, me looking up with that curved smile still on my lips.

His expression showed no ripples, just a glance, and he quickly stepped back, preparing to turn and leave.

My heart sank, inexplicably feeling my face burn and even some panic. What did his look just now assume?

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

Because I couldn't let him know what I had just been doing—if I explained, I would have to clarify what Field was doing to me, and I would once again become that embarrassing character who needed saving in front of this man.

And besides—he didn't care.

There was nothing in his eyes, just ordinary coldness, ordinary disinterest. He probably thought I was that kind of person—tonight I had just escaped from his place unscathed, then turned around to flirt with another man in the restroom.

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

I got my wish—he turned and left.

The door closed.

Something unclear lodged in my stomach, cold and hard.

Then I turned back to look at Field.

He still hadn't realized anything, still smiling, the hand around my waist slowly moving downward as he prepared to continue his presumptuous actions.

Before the smile at his mouth could fade, I raised my hand to grip his wrist and twisted it outward.

His expression changed drastically. "You—"

I pushed him into the innermost stall and locked the door.

He was taller than me, stronger than me, but he had been drinking, and he never expected I would fight back.

That was enough.

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

My hair was still relatively neat, my lipstick hadn't smudged much, and my dress was fine. Only my hand had a small scratch from his struggling—nothing serious.

I walked out of the restroom, and when I reached the corner of the corridor, I stopped and raised my hand to pin back the hair that had come loose.

"Need help?"

I turned around.

Fox Nelson was standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall with a composed expression, something at the corner of his mouth—inquiry, assessment, hard to say exactly what, but it didn't seem malicious.

His gaze fell on the scratch on the back of my hand. He made no comment and looked back at my face.

"Sorry, I was just passing by," he said lightly, "and besides, I didn't see anything."

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

The corners of his lips curved up, his handsome features becoming even more gentle. His eyes were truly beautiful, like a pool of calm water filled with steadiness and deep affection. Of course, these eyes looked at everyone with deep affection, including me.

I didn't take up this conversation and walked directly past him, but he called out to me: "I heard you're a nurse?"