Chapter 125: Fear

Thousands of miles away, in the quiet, tree-lined suburb of Rublyovka just outside Moscow, the sun was setting over the massive Kazarov estate.

A slick black sedan pulled up the long driveway, stopping near the front steps.

Anya step out of the rear seat, her high heels clicking sharply against the stone.

She adjusted the dark coat draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves around her face.

Next to her, an older man in a tailored grey suit, one of her father, Alexei’s chief business advisors, stepped out, holding a thick leather briefcase.

They were there under the official excuse of reviewing trade documents with Pyotr while Aaron was out of the country. But Anya hadn’t come for paper work.

Inside the grand house, Pyotr met them in the main hall.

He greeted the older advisor with a polite nod, though his dark eyes turned flat when they landed on Anya.

He knew her too well. He knew she only ever showed up at the estate when Aaron was around, or when she wanted something she wasn’t supposed to have.

"The boss is not here," Pyotr said simply, keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

"I know," Anya said, giving him a sweet, shallow smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "I came to deliver the updated shipping tallies for my father. Ivan needs to go over them with you anyway."

Pyotr grunted, gesturing for the advisor to follow him toward the study down the hall.

Left alone in the foyer, Anya didn’t leave. She strolled slowly toward the grand staircase, her hands tucked into her coat pockets, her eyes scanning the quiet house.

It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for.

Sitting on a wide stone bench near the glass doors leading to the courtyard was Freya.

The teenage girl was hunched over, a pair of heavy headphones resting around her neck, her pale fingers tearing small strips off a piece of paper in her lap while Mister cheese napped at her feet.

Her face was dark, brows furrowed with her lower lip pushed out in a familiar, sullen pout.

Anya slowed her pace, stopping a few feet away. "You look miserable," she noted lightly.

Freya didn’t look up. "Go away, you old witch."

Anya’s eyes twitched in utter irritation but she didn’t leave. Instead, she leaned back against the wall, crossing her ankles.

"I heard the news today. Aaron’s little woman and her estranged husband. The divorce went through in the states. It was all over the international papers."

Freya’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, but she kept her eyes glued to the floor. "So what?"

"So," Anya said softly, her voice dropping into a conversational, almost sympathetic purr, "it means she’s free now. Isabella. I heard Aaron spent millions of dollars to clear her name, get her away from her husband, and pull her out of that mess."

Freya sneered, finally throwing a glare up at the older woman. "Mishka doesn’t care about her like that. She’s just some broken woman he saved."

Anya let out a small, soft laugh, shaking her head as if Freya had said something naïve and silly. "Oh, Freya. You really don’t see it, do you?"

"See what?" Freya demanded, her posture straightening, her eyes turning defensive.

"Aaron doesn’t bring women into this house," Anya said, stepping a little closer, her voice smooth and gentle.

"He doesn’t fight other men’s wars for them. He brought her here. He hid her here. And now that she’s divorced, what do you think happens next?"

Freya swallowed, her jaw tightening. "Nothing happens."

"She becomes the woman of this house," Anya said quietly. "She becomes his wife. And when a man like Aaron gets a wife, things change."

"He wouldn’t change," Freya snapped, her voice rising slightly. "He takes care of us!"

"He takes care of you because you’re children," Anya replied smoothly, placing a hand on her own chest, looking down at Freya with pity.

"Because you need him. But once he has a family of his own... once he has a wife filling up his time, asking for his attention, sitting at the head of the table... where do you think you and Finn fit?"

Freya stared at her, her breath catching in her throat.

The words hit the exact spot that had been aching inside her chest for weeks.

She had spent her time afraid of being pushed aside, afraid of being sent away, afraid that the only man who had ever kept her safe would eventually realize she was just a burden he had picked up out of duty.

Anya saw the flicker of panic in the girl’s eyes and knew the hook had taken.

"I’m not saying she’s evil," Anya added quickly, waving a hand as if she were taking it all back.

"She’s just smart. A blind woman, helpless, needy... she knows exactly how to make a man like Aaron feel like he has to protect her every second of the day. If you aren’t careful, Freya, you won’t even have a place at his table anymore."

"He wouldn’t do that to me," Freya whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Maybe not on purpose," Anya said, stepping back and pulling her coat tight.

"But men get busy. Wives take up a lot of room. You’re a clever girl, Freya. You should just make sure she knows that this isn’t her house."

Anya gave her one last, lingering look before turning on her heel and walking back toward the main foyer, perfectly satisfied with the seed she had planted.

A few minutes later, Pyotr walked out of the study with the advisor, heading toward the front door. Finn came running down the hallway from the kitchen, holding a half-eaten apple, his face red with annoyance.

"Pyotr!" Finn called out, stomping his foot. "Is it true? Are they not coming back today?"

Pyotr stopped, sighing as he turned to the boy. "No, Finn. Boss called. They went to Italy."

Finn groaned loudly, throwing his hands up. "Italy? Why? He said they were coming back here! I wanted to show Isabella the new puppies we rescued!"

"She needs to rest," Pyotr said sternly. "Aaron made a last-minute decision. They will be there for a few weeks."

Sitting near the courtyard doors, Freya listened to every word. Her hands balled into tight fists, crumpling the paper in her lap into a tight, hard ball.

He had lied to them. He was supposed to come home. Instead, he had taken ’her’ to Italy.