Freya had just finished changing into a fresh pair of pajamas and fuzzy socks.
She stood by the window of her apartment, sipping lukewarm tea as she watched the traffic stream like sluggish veins through the city below.
She was recovering, yes. But still a little sore from the hospital stay, and the pain in her ribs gave a dull reminder that life hadn't exactly been gentle lately.
Then she heard a knock. It was a polite one that came in three rhythmic taps.
She shuffled to the door, and opened it to find a delivery man standing there with a clipboard and a stack of beautifully wrapped packages in his arms.
"Miss Davis? Delivery for you," he said with a smile.
Freya blinked. "I... wasn't expecting anything."
"From Mr. Arnold Connor. Sign here, please."
Her heart gave an involuntary flutter. She took the pen, signed quickly, and accepted the gifts. The man tipped his cap and left without another word.
She brought them inside and set them down on her coffee table. Each box was carefully wrapped in soft gold and ivory paper, with navy silk ribbons tied in perfect bows. A handwritten card lay on top.
**Freya,
I figured your apartment could use some flowers, chocolates, and a decent pair of headphones. Rest up. You're not out of the woods yet.
— A**
She read the note twice before opening the packages. Inside were luxury noise-cancelling headphones, a box of fine Belgian chocolates, a bouquet of calla lilies in a glass vase, and an elegant silk robe in her favorite shade of purple.
Her lips curled into a smile. The gesture felt intimate. And yet... confusing.
She was halfway through one of the chocolates when her phone buzzed.
Laura calling…
"Hey, Laur," She said, flopping onto her couch with a sigh.
"Girl, are you okay? I just saw it!"
"What?" She asked in confusion.
"Wait, you don't know what's going on?" Laura gasped. "Turn on your TV. Right now. Channel 8."
"Why?"
"JUST DO IT!"
Freya reached for the remote and flicked to Channel 8.
There it was. Her face. Plastered next to a blurry photo of her under the bedsheets and Arnold staring at her in the hotel room.
In bold font below the image was the headline:
"Billionaire Arnold Connor's Secret Girlfriend? Mystery Woman Might Be Linked to The Recently Injured Journalist."
She felt the blood drain from her face. And her stomach twisted.
"Laura... what the hell is this?"
"It's everywhere. Social media, gossip blogs, you name it. Someone leaked it. And girl, the vultures are out."
Freya dropped the chocolate. Her hands trembled slightly as she watched another clip: a zoomed-in shot of her exiting her office building days later.
Then a commentary voice-over began, speculating about her identity. They were wondering if she was the one in the bed or not.
Then came another ping on her phone. This time a photo. Sent from an unknown number. She opened it.
It was the same image from the article, only zoomed in on her face, with a caption:
"Pretty little thing, aren't you? Hope you like the spotlight."
Freya's skin prickled. Her heartbeat doubled instantly.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
"You okay?" Laura's voice was gentler now.
"No. I mean, yeah. I mean... how did this even happen?"
"I don't know. They're saying you were planted. That you're some kind of escort. One even claims you're married."
Freya choked on a bitter laugh. "Married? Seriously?"
"The internet doesn't care about truth. They just want a show," Laura said with a tight voice. "but you'd better be careful. If this is the press now, imagine what the boardroom looks like. And Arnold... you think he did this?"
Freya went quiet.
"No," she said firmly. "He wouldn't."
But even as she said it, a new kind of chill settled in her gut. Somewhere out there, someone wanted her ruined.
And if it wasn't Arnold, who was it?