The quiet beep of machines and the antiseptic air of the hospital room stung Freya's nostrils as she blinked awake.
Her head was heavy, vision blurred, but the dull pain in her ribs brought memories crashing back—the road, the car, Arnold's voice in her ear.
She turned her head slowly. A nurse was at the far side of the room, adjusting something on a clipboard.
"You're awake," the nurse said gently, stepping over. "Don't try to move too fast. You have a mild concussion, a few bruised ribs, and some abrasions, but nothing broken. You were very lucky."
Freya tried to speak but her throat was dry. The nurse offered her a cup of water with a straw.
"Someone's been waiting all night," she added with a small smile. "Wouldn't leave your side. We finally made him step out to get some coffee."
Before Freya could ask, the door creaked open. Arnold walked in, a paper cup in hand, his tie undone and eyes shadowed with sleeplessness.
He froze when he saw her awake.
"Freya," he said, almost in a whisper.
Her voice came out hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
He walked to her bedside, hesitated, then gently took her hand.
"You scared the hell out of me."
She stared at his face. There was no trace of the usual polished billionaire persona. Just raw concern.
There was a silence between them, thick with questions.
"Was it an accident?" she asked.
He looked at her sharply. "What are you saying?"
Freya shook her head slightly. "Nothing. Just a feeling."
He squeezed her hand. "I'm not going anywhere. You need anything, anything at all… I'm here."
She gave a small nod. "You didn't have to stay."
"I did."
Outside the room, a hospital security guard stood by the door now, keeping reporters at bay.
The news had broken hours ago:
Billionaire Arnold Connor Seen with Injured Journalist After Mysterious Accident.
Suddenly, the door burst open.
Laura rushed frantically into the room with her phone in hand.
"Freya!" she breathed as she got to her bedside. "Oh my God, I saw the news. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Freya muttered with a faint smile.
Laura's eyes then ran to Arnold. Her lips parted slightly in shock. "Wait… are you—?"
Arnold stood, smoothing his hoodie. "Yes. I'm Arnold Connor."
Laura stared, trying to hide the star-struck confusion. "Right. Of course you are."
A knock came next, then the door cracked open again. Alex stepped in. His eyes landed on Freya and then immediately on Arnold.
"Freya," he said breathlessly. "You weren't picking up. I thought something happened at the cafe restroom—then I saw the news."
Freya sighed. "Sorry, Alex. I didn't mean to worry you..."
Before Freya could finish talking, Flora also arrived.
"Oh God, Freya! I came as soon as I heard," she exclaimed, carefully skirting around Arnold to take Freya's hand. "Are you okay?"
Freya blinked at her, disoriented by all the sudden attention. "Yeah. I'm… okay."
"You must be Freya's friend," she smiled at Laura. "I'm Flora. I work with Freya."
"Yes, nice to meet you." Laura replied.
Arnold's phone buzzed, and he stepped out to answer.
"Dad," He answered cautiously.
Charles Connor's voice came through furiously. "What sort of stupid mess have you put yourself in this time?"
Arnold didn't reply.
"Don't play silent with me," Charles snapped. "You're all over the bloody internet. Photos of you kneeling in the street like a lunatic. That disguise? Pathetic. I told you—keep your personal affairs private."
Arnold closed his eyes briefly. "I'm handling it."
"You'd better," Charles barked. "Before the press eats you alive. And whatever this girl means to you, keep her out of the headlines. Keep your name clean!"
The call ended abruptly. And Arnold returned to the room.
Inside, the energy had shifted. Laura was subtly assessing everyone, Alex had stiffened beside the bed, and Flora stood like she was staging a scene for maximum effect.
Arnold moved to Freya's side again. "You need to rest."
"I will," she said, suddenly feeling every ache in her body again.
____
In a darkened room somewhere across the city, Greg Hills leaned forward in his chair, the soft blue glow of a screen reflecting in his eyes.
On it, a crisp feed showed the inside of Freya's hospital room. Soundless, but vivid.
Freya was propped up slightly against the pillows, eyes heavy but awake. Arnold sat beside her, close, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world.
Greg didn't blink.
The image was sharp, thanks to the small camera Flora had pinned discreetly into her blazer button earlier that morning. A micro spy lens hidden behind a brass accent — standard surveillance tech for Greg's delicate operations.
Behind him, Dave hovered near the shadows. "Not a fling. They look serious."
"I want to know everything they say," Greg tapped his fingers once against the table. "Keep a recording rolling. And tell Flora not to get too close too fast. Let her stay the concerned intern for now."
Dave nodded.
"She's not just leverage anymore… She's becoming his anchor."
He paused.
"And anchors... sink ships."