Outside the hospital, the media storm waited like a pack of wolves. Cameras. Reporters. Microphones.
Arnold straightened his suit jacket and stepped onto the steps with calm poise.
Flashes went off. A wall of questions came at him:
"Mr. Connor, were you with Freya Davis that day?"
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"Why were you both at the café?" "Were you in disguise?"
Arnold raised one hand, silencing them like a conductor pausing an orchestra.
"I'll make this simple," he said, his voice direct. "Miss Freya Davis and I are not in any relationship. I was at the café for personal reasons—disguised, yes, because I prefer anonymity in public."
The reporters murmured.
"I witnessed the accident as it happened. I stepped in to help her, as any decent person would. I stayed with her because I could not, in good conscience, walk away from someone in distress."
He paused.
"She is a stranger to me. And I expect that will remain the case. I ask that you respect her privacy and mine."
Then he turned, walked back inside, and left the chaos behind.
____
Back in the hospital room, after the crowd was gone, Freya was poking moodily at a cup of lime Jell-O when the door creaked open.
Arnold strolled in like he owned the place—which, knowing him, he probably did.
He still had his suit on, but his tie was loosened and his hair slightly tousled, like someone had run their hands through it in frustration. Or arrogance. Probably arrogance.
"You're back," she muttered, not looking up. "What, did the peasants with pitchforks disperse?"
"I gave them a royal decree," he said dryly, pulling the chair beside her bed. "They can go back to chasing aliens and debating the best Kardashian."
She snorted. "Very noble. And what did you tell the world about me, Your Majesty?"
He looked at her, completely deadpan. "That you're a stranger. A random woman. A complete nobody I just happened to rescue because I'm generous like that."
Freya blinked at him, jaw slowly dropping. "You—wait, you really said that?"
He shrugged. "Roughly. I may have added that you were tragic and helpless and I, a humble billionaire in disguise, simply couldn't walk away."
She stared at him.
"You made me sound like a stray cat."
"No," he said thoughtfully. "More like a slightly dazed raccoon in traffic."
"You jackass."
Arnold leaned back, unbothered. "I had to protect your dignity. Would you rather I told them you were my one-night-stand?"
Freya threw a pillow at him. "You're insufferable!"
He caught it mid-air, smug as ever. "I get that a lot. Usually from women in love with me."
"Oh my God," she groaned, covering her face with her hands. "You're like a soap opera villain. Do you practice being this unbearable, or is it just natural talent?"
Arnold tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Natural talent. And genetics. My father's a tyrant."
"I feel sorry for your mother."
The second the words left her mouth, the air changed.
Arnold's smile faltered, just for a split second—like something punched the wind out of him from the inside.
His gaze dropped, and his posture stiffened so subtly she might've missed it if she wasn't watching him so closely.
She blinked, suddenly serious. "Wait… what is it?"
He didn't speak for a beat.
"You never talk about her,"
Arnold leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "She died when I was sixteen."
The room quieted.
"I'm sorry," Freya said in a gentle voice. "I didn't know."
He nodded slowly. "No one does. That's the point."
"What happened?"
"She got sick. Then she got ignored. Then she got quiet. Then one day, she just… wasn't there anymore." His voice was flat, but the pain peeked through anyway.
"I think I would've liked her," she said softly.
He looked at her then. Really looked at her.
"She had a sharp tongue, and she didn't take crap from powerful men. Like you."
Freya tilted her head. "Was she also forced to eat lime Jell-O in a hospital bed after getting hit by a car?"
"No," Arnold smirked. "She would've sued the hospital, the car, and the street."
She grinned. "A woman after my own heart."
There was a beat of silence. Then, Freya rolled her eyes dramatically.
"Still doesn't excuse the fact you called me a helpless nobody on live television."
Arnold raised a brow. "You were unconscious and bleeding on the pavement. What should I have said?"
"You could've said I was a brave investigative journalist who saved your life first."
"I don't recall you saving me."
"It doesn't matter!" She groaned. "I'm going to make your life hell when I'm discharged."
Arnold leaned in, eyes glinting. "Can't wait."
Just then, his phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at the screen.
And his expression shifted. Slightly. But she caught it.
Freya watched the calm mask slip back into place. The one he wore when he didn't want anyone to know what he was thinking. It was fast. Automatic.
He picked up the phone, tapped the screen, and read quietly.
From: Regina Holt, Executive Secretary to Mr. Charles Connor
To: Mr. Arnold Connor
Subject: Scheduled Meeting
"Mr. Connor,
Your presence is requested at a private meeting with Mr. Charles Connor tomorrow at 10:00 AM sharp. Location will be the Connor Holdings Executive Suite, Floor 47, secured conference room."