Freya remained in the guest room long after Doctor Ramesh left. The room was quiet again, and for the first time since everything happened, nobody was asking her questions, nobody was watching her, and nobody was expecting anything from her.
She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her luggage—the same luggage she had packed with her own hands, the same luggage that had been thrown into a moving van while she stood outside the gates of the house she had called home for five years.
A bitter smile appeared on her face.
Five years.
How could five years disappear in a single afternoon?
Her eyes drifted toward the window. The weather outside was beautiful, and people were probably going about their lives, children heading to school, employees rushing to work. The world had continued moving. Only hers had stopped.
Freya lowered her head and clasped her hands together. "Dylan..."
The name escaped her lips before she realized it, and immediately her eyes filled with tears. She had been trying very hard not to think about him.
Every time she remembered her friend Sienna's call, every time she remembered the news of the plane crash, every time she remembered people saying there were no survivors, it felt as though someone was squeezing her heart.
She wanted to reject it. She wanted to believe there had been a mistake. She wanted someone to call and tell her they had found him alive, safe, waiting for her. But no such call came, and the silence itself was becoming an answer.
Her shoulders trembled as tears began to fall again, slower and heavier this time: the kind that came when reality was beginning to settle in. She remembered meeting Dylan, their wedding, the excitement of moving into their home, and the dreams they once shared. Then came the late nights, the arguments, the distance, the coldness, and the loneliness she endured even while married.
She had spent so much time hoping things would improve that she had almost forgotten what happiness felt like. Yet despite everything, she had still loved him. That was the painful part. No matter how difficult things became, she had never stopped loving him. And now he was gone.
A knock sounded on the door.
Freya quickly wiped her tears. "Come in."
An elderly maid entered carrying a tray. "Miss Freya, I brought lunch."
Freya immediately stood. "Oh. Thank you."
The maid placed the tray on a nearby table. "Please eat while it is still warm."
Freya nodded as the maid hesitated briefly before asking, "Are you feeling better today?"
"A little."
"That is good."
Freya smiled politely, and the maid returned the smile before leaving.
Once she was alone again, Freya stared at the food. She was not hungry, but she forced herself to eat anyway because she was no longer alone; there was a baby depending on her. That thought alone made her continue.
After lunch, she sorted through her belongings. Most of her things had survived the move: books, clothes, documents, and a few photographs.
She picked up one photograph and froze. It showed a younger Dylan standing beside her with his arm around her shoulders, both of them smiling as though everything in life was still possible. Fresh tears threatened to appear, but she quickly placed the photograph back.
"No. Stop crying."
She needed to think. She needed to figure out what came next—where she would stay, how she would survive, and what she would do after the funeral.
The funeral.
The moment the thought came, she sat upright. Nobody had told her anything; no date, no arrangements, nothing. Her hands tightened. How could she have forgotten? No matter what had happened between her and Dylan's family, she still had the right to say goodbye, didn't she?
The question lingered in her mind for the rest of the afternoon.
***
Meanwhile, downstairs, Raghnall sat in his study reviewing reports when Cedric entered with another file.
"The prosecutors have submitted an update, sir."
Raghnall looked up. "What now?"
"The situation at the residence remains tense. Dylan Fyre's mother continues to resist the seizure process."
"I expected that."
Cedric nodded before continuing. "There is another matter."
"What is it?"
"The wife remains missing. The investigators still haven't located her."
Raghnall leaned back slightly. "Still?"
"No, sir."
He said nothing after that. For some reason, his thoughts drifted upstairs to the woman occupying one of his guest rooms, to the exhausted expression he had seen earlier, and to the tears she had tried to hide. The image lingered longer than he expected.
Cedric noticed the silence. "Sir?"
"Nothing."
Raghnall closed the file. "Continue monitoring the situation."
"Yes, sir."
***
By evening, Freya finally gathered enough courage to leave the room and wandered into the gardens behind the mansion. The cool breeze brushed against her skin, and for the first time in days she felt as though she could breathe properly.
The gardens were vast, lined with flowers and small fountains, peaceful in a way that sharply contrasted the chaos inside her heart.
"You're supposed to be resting."
Freya jumped slightly and turned to find Raghnall standing several steps away. For a moment she looked embarrassed.
"I'm sorry."
"Why are you apologizing?"
"I thought I wasn't supposed to be here."
A faint smile appeared on Raghnall's face. "You are a guest, not a prisoner."
Freya relaxed slightly. "Thank you."
They walked slowly along the pathway without speaking for a while. Eventually, Raghnall broke the silence.
"How are you feeling?"
"Much better."
"You don't look much better."
Freya let out a soft laugh despite herself. "I suppose I don't."
The laugh surprised both of them, and she quickly looked away in slight embarrassment. Raghnall noticed it but did not comment, instead shifting the topic.
"If there is anything you need, speak to the staff."
"Thank you."
Silence followed again, but this time it was comfortable. Eventually, Freya spoke.
"President Blackwood."
"Hm?"
"There is something I would like to ask."
"Go ahead."
She hesitated before speaking quietly. "I was wondering if somebody could help me find information about a funeral."
Raghnall's gaze shifted to her. "A funeral?"
"Yes." She lowered her eyes. "My husband's."
For a brief moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded. "Alright."
Freya looked up in surprise. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
Relief spread across her face, and Raghnall simply observed her. He did not know why, but something about the situation felt wrong. Not suspicious but wrong, as though important pieces were missing.
Neither of them realized that the answers they were both searching for were already much closer than they believed.