Multi Shot - LingOrm and FreenBecky

FREENBECKY - Fierce Attraction : Intersections Of Fate

That evening, Becky Armstrong sat alone in her penthouse, perched on the plush sectional sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. The dim glow of the city lights seeped through the expansive windows, casting a soft glimmer across the campaign notes spread out before her.

She flipped through the pages, her brows furrowed as she reread the design briefs and shoot schedules.

She'd unexpectedly found herself in charge of bridging Channel 3's seasoned stars with Chankimha Group's emerging talents—a responsibility that weighed heavily on her. Normally, this was Freen Sarocha Chankimha's domain, orchestrated with her signature poise. But now, it fell to Becky, and the burden felt... strange. Almost personal.

Her phone chimed, breaking her focus. Grabbing it off the coffee table, she frowned at the sight of an unknown number. Expecting another intrusive query from the press, she hesitated before swiping it open.

Her breath caught as she read the message:

"This is Freen. Sorry for the abrupt handover. Family emergency. Can we talk soon?"

Family emergency? The words hung in her mind, igniting a spark of curiosity. Freen never seemed the type to admit vulnerability, especially not to Becky.

She typed back, her tone deliberately cautious:

"You sure you want to share anything with me? I thought corporate synergy was all you needed."

A minute later, the response came:

"It's complicated. I'd appreciate your thoughts on a personal matter—if you can spare the time."

Becky's eyebrows shot up, disbelief flashing across her face. Freen wanting personal advice? The idea was absurd. Yet, beneath her surprise, a flicker of empathy stirred. The rumors of Freen's family pressuring her into an arranged marriage flashed in her mind. Was that what this was about?

She exhaled deeply, fingers hovering over her phone. God knows I hate meddling in other people's drama. But if anyone understands being cornered, it's me. Finally, she typed:

"Sure. Let's meet. I can help with campaign details, plus... talk if you need it. When and where?"

  "Thank you. Tomorrow night? My place—quiet environment. I'll send the address."

Becky stared at the text, her pulse quickening.

Her place? She envisioned the infamous Chankimha mansion—sleek, modern, perched by the Chao Phraya River like a guarded fortress. Why would Freen open the doors to that private world for her?

Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she sent her final message:

"I'll be there. Let's figure this out."

Setting her phone down, Becky leaned back against the sofa, her mind whirling. The thought of entering Freen's domain—away from cameras, away from corporate settings—felt surreal. She had no illusions about the encounter. This wouldn't be a cozy catch-up between friends. Freen's pride and her own temper would likely clash, as they always did.

But beneath her irritation and apprehension, another feeling coiled within her—curiosity. What could Freen possibly want to share with her, of all people?

The night sky stretched dark and clear over Bangkok as Becky Armstrong guided her car through the quieter streets. She'd insisted on driving herself, waving off Chut's offer of a driver. Something about taking this journey alone felt significant—it wasn't just about stubborn independence; it felt personal.