Freya barely slept that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself thinking about Dylan, and the memories came without warning, shifting between the early days of their marriage when everything still felt warm and possible, and the later years when silence and distance had taken over.
By the time morning arrived, she was already awake, sitting quietly in the room with her thoughts refusing to settle.
After washing up and changing into a simple dress, she sat beside the window and stared outside. The sky was bright and the gardens below were already being tended by workers, yet none of it reached her mind.
The funeral was the only thing she could think about. She needed answers, because no matter what Dylan's family believed about her, she could not accept disappearing without knowing when she would say goodbye to the man she had spent five years of her life with.
After breakfast, she finally gathered enough courage to seek out Raghnall. A servant led her to the study where he was already working, and when she entered, he looked up from the documents spread across his desk and motioned for her to come in.
"Good morning, Miss Freya."
"Good morning, President Blackwood."
"You look tired."
Freya gave a weak laugh as she sat down. "I did not sleep very well."
"I suspected as much."
A brief silence followed before Freya clasped her hands together and spoke carefully. "President Blackwood, I wanted to ask for a favour."
"Go ahead."
"You mentioned yesterday that somebody could help me find information about my husband's funeral. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to visit his family home."
Raghnall studied her for a moment before responding. "You believe they will tell you what you want to know?"
"I honestly do not know," Freya admitted, lowering her gaze slightly. "But I have to try. Even if they refuse to speak to me, I still need to know when the funeral will take place."
Her voice carried a quiet sincerity that made the room feel heavier. Raghnall leaned back in his chair briefly before nodding once.
"Very well. I will have someone drive you there."
Relief appeared immediately on Freya's face, softening the tension in her shoulders. "Thank you."
"I'll have the car prepared."
An hour later, Freya was seated in the back of a luxury sedan as it moved through streets that slowly became familiar again. The driver assigned to her, a quiet middle-aged man named Thomas, said very little and only occasionally checked the rearview mirror to ensure she was alright.
As they approached the neighbourhood she once called home, her anxiety steadily rose, because every corner, every shop, and every small landmark remained exactly the same, as though nothing in her life had changed at all.
The car eventually slowed near the house, and Freya's heart tightened. She stared at it for several seconds, unable to move at first, because the building looked unchanged, the same walls that had once held her marriage now standing quietly as if nothing had collapsed inside them.
"Miss Freya, would you like me to accompany you?" Thomas asked gently.
Freya shook her head. "No. I'll be alright."
She stepped out of the car and approached the gate, but she had barely taken a few steps when she was noticed.
"Dad! Mom! Look who's here!"
The front door opened almost immediately, and Dylan's mother appeared first. The moment her eyes landed on Freya, her expression hardened.
"What are you doing here?"
Freya forced herself to stay calm. "I came to ask about Dylan's funeral."
"You have some nerve showing your face here."
Neighbours nearby had already begun to gather, their attention drawn to the raised voices. Freya felt their stares but did not turn away.
"Please. I only want to know when the funeral will take place."
"You do not deserve to attend my son's funeral."
The words hit harder than she expected, but she swallowed her pain and tried again. "Mother…"
"Do not call me that."
The voice rose sharply. "You stopped being family the moment my son died."
Freya went pale as more neighbours gathered. Thomas remained nearby, watching carefully but not interfering unless necessary.
"I loved Dylan," Freya said quietly.
"Loved him?" Dylan's sister scoffed. "Then why was he always away from home? Why was he always unhappy?"
Freya stared at her, unable to respond immediately, because the same questions had haunted her for years. Before she could speak, Dylan's mother pointed toward the street.
"Leave."
"I only came to ask about the funeral."
"I said leave."
The tension spread through the crowd, uncomfortable and heavy, yet still no one stepped forward until an elderly woman approached from a nearby house.
"Enough, Martha," she said firmly. "The whole neighbourhood is watching."
Dylan's mother frowned. "This has nothing to do with you."
"It becomes my business when you start shouting in the street."
She turned to Freya, her expression softer. "My child, you should go home."
The simple kindness nearly broke Freya's composure, but Dylan's mother cut in again. "There is no home for her here."
"Then stop embarrassing yourself and go back inside," the elderly woman replied. "Whether you like it or not, she was your son's wife."
The air tightened between them as neighbours whispered, and Freya realized she would get nothing more here.
She slowly stepped backward. "I understand."
She turned and walked away.
When she reached the car, the elderly woman followed her and spoke quietly once they were out of earshot of the others. "The funeral is the day after tomorrow at Saint Matthew's Chapel before the burial."
Freya froze for a moment before whispering, "Thank you."
The woman gently squeezed her hand. "Take care of yourself."
Freya nodded, then returned to the car in silence. The journey back was quiet, and when she arrived at Raghnall's residence, she immediately went to her room, needing time alone.
Thomas, however, went directly to the study.
Raghnall looked up when he entered. "How did it go?"
Thomas hesitated before recounting everything: the confrontation, the insults, the neighbours, and finally the funeral details. Then he added the detail that made the room shift in tone.
"The family repeatedly referred to her as Dylan's wife, sir."
Silence followed.
Raghnall set the document in his hands down slowly. "So it was her."
Thomas frowned slightly. "Sir?"
"Nothing. You can leave."
Raghnall turned toward the window, his expression unreadable, as the pieces that had been scattered across multiple investigations finally began to align into one single conclusion.
The woman staying in his house was not just connected to the missing wife they were searching for.
She was the wife.
And that realization made everything far more complicated than it had been before.