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"CASSIE," FREYA GREETED, with a poisonous smile, as she waltzed toward the receptionist who sat behind a sleek desk in the lobby of the Arsov building.
Cassandra, her father's receptionist for the last five or so years, looked up, her eyes registering immediate dislike behind her dark-framed glasses as they settled upon Freya. The dislike shared between Cassandra and Freya was no secret to either of them. Freya felt the older woman's sceptical gaze graze over her attire, a narrow brow rising as she judged Roza's clothes.
Cassandra plastered a faux smile upon her face, for the sake of the throngs of people in the vast, bristling lobby, of course. Voice terse, she inquired, "How can I help you, Miss Arsov?"
Freya rested her palms flat on the cool marble of Cassandra's desk and beamed, flashing white teeth.
There was a troupe of businessmen in pressed suits near the elevator in Freya's left, a woman in a smart yellow pantsuit typing away the last-minute notes for whatever meeting she waited for on a tablet on one of the leather armchairs near the entrance, the large glass wall overlooking the street Freya had entered from displayed the trafficked streets and passers-by. The lobby wasn't empty, certainly not. Even on a Sunday morning, the lobby of her father's building was never empty.
Still, that didn't stop Freya from tapping her nails on the desk and chiming to Cassie, "Hmm, you can start by not fucking throwing yourself at my father."
She watched Cassandra's face crumple, her eyes darting wildly around the large lobby space to see who might've heard.
Hell, Freya's name was on the building, she could do what she wanted.
The horror blooming behind Cassandra's eyes, however, provided her no reprieve. It only opened the pit in her stomach even wider.
She'd told herself she could do this, walking from the café after a charming breakfast with Matthew, she'd convinced herself during the drive to her father's building. And yet, when she'd stepped out of Matthew's car, onto the bustling sidewalk, all the sandpapering his soft gazes had done against her sharp edges faded away and her legs felt unsteady beneath her feet.
The lurking feelings from yesterday's events had reared its ugly head as the reality crashed against her in the most inopportune moments. She didn't dare show it, forcing her legs onward, aware of Matthew's hesitant gaze on her back. He'd offered to come with her when she'd told him what she wanted to do after breakfast, but that would be too many questions from her father that she didn't know the answer too. Also, Freya wanted to do this alone.
She'd heard him drive away though and her stomach twisted.
Alas, she needed the credit card that would come out of this visit.
In the process of kidnapping her, her coat had been taken, along with her phone and cards. She doubted Charlotte had possessed any intention to steal from her. If she had, the thin white gold necklace upon which a glittering diamond hung wouldn't have still been around Freya's neck as she fled that basement.
Still, she was irked about the phone. However, she'd taken a lot of precautions in sealing her phone tightly, like a bank vault. The tech-savvy, shy boy from her Further Maths class had done the deed for her, after she'd struck a bargain with him.
The street was crowded, yes, Londoners walking from here to there. There was a legion of security cameras posted right outside her father's building, she knew. Freya still couldn't get over the feeling that some dark stranger was going to pounce upon her and shoot some more ketamine into her veins. After all, the street outside Galvin La Chapelle had been crowded too.
Yesterday, she hadn't been afraid when a gun was pointed to her head. Today, however, she realised just how badly things could have gone and that made her even angrier.
Cassandra cleared her throat, cheeks aflame. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
Freya's irritation surged. "Drop the fucking act."
Cassandra narrowed her eyes, studying Freya analytically and in a faux caring voice, she asked, "Are you high?"
Freya's anger mounted a peak. In seconds, she was leaning over the desk, eyes hard, uncaring about who the hell was in the lobby. Her reply was venom, pure venom, "No."
Cassandra recoiled, straightening her glasses as she eyed Freya. Perhaps, she was remembering the last time Freya had pounced on her.
Freya had never liked Cassandra. She was always a little too friendly with her father, an ass kisser through and through, hand brushing his shoulder as she handed him a file, too quick to say cheerily Yes, Mr. Arsov or Of Course, Sir. That small dislike has blossomed into something further two years ago during a meeting Freya had entertained with her father in his office, one that Cassie so happened to be around for.
She'd narrowed her eyes at Freya, slumped boredly in the armchair opposite Nikolai's desk, and said, eyes narrowed, in the voice of someone looking for a bone, for a pat on the back, for a reward, "Sir, if you don't mind me saying, I think your daughter's high."
She'd been right, and Freya had flown at her like a wild animal, expletives falling from her lips like bombs.
It wasn't Cassie knowing about her habits that upset Freya, it was that she had used it, like a tool, to get her father's approval. It was that day that Freya realised the information of her drug problem could also be used as a weapon, against her, against her family. It had been nothing short of harrowing.
And here was Cassandra, throwing it in her face again. Except Freya didn't feel rattled down to her core, she was angry. God, she was angry. When was she ever not angry?
In that damn car. Kissing that damn boy.
She didn't want to think about it.
So she stopped thinking about it.
It was just a question Cassie had asked, one she could usually stomach. If it came from Karsyn, or Amelie. But it was coming from someone who didn't really care.
Freya detached herself from the desk, stepping away. Her stance had caught the attention of a few lobby-goers but she didn't care. She took a steady breath. Eyes cold on Cassandra, she said, "I'd like to speak with my father."
Cassie studied her like she was a feral beast, like she might attack at any given moment, warily. She dropped her gaze only to right her seat behind the desk after she'd backed away from Freya and to flip through a book. A pleased glint appeared in her eye at whatever she saw there. "He's in a meeting."
Freya ground her teeth together. Maybe she should have attacked Cassie when she'd had the chance after all. Bitch. But Freya was the bigger bitch. "I'm his daughter," she said simply and coldly. "End it."
"I can't do that," challenged Cassandra, dark lips curling.
Freya tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and tapped her foot. "I stand to inherit half of this company, Cassie," she replied condescendingly. "Whoever he's in a meeting with isn't as important as I am. End it."
Cassandra frowned, irate. But who was she to risk her job, her beloved job with her beloved Nikolai Arsov, to spite his daughter? Cassie was many things, but not a fool.
Freya only waited as she reluctantly picked up the phone on her desk and pressed the button that connected her directly to the phone in her father's office. "Hello, Sir. Your daughter is in the lobby requesting a meeting," spoke Cassie, her tone taking on a chirpy note that wasn't there before. Freya restrained from rolling her eyes.
Cassie glanced up at her, a dismayed look upon her face as she said, in a voice that didn't match her expression, "Yes, sir. I'll send her up."
This time, Freya did roll her eyes, and she made sure Cassandra saw.
After the woman hung up the phone, Freya turned away from the desk, saying, "I'd say it was a pleasure, Cassie, but I'd be lying."
She felt the receptionist's glare burn into her back as she clicked her heels over to the shiny door of one of the elevators.
Once inside, she pressed the button for the top floor, her father's office. As the elevator doors closed around her, she side-eyed her appearance in the mirror of the empty elevator.
She tugged down the sleeves of Roza's jumper and tapped her cheeks to restore some semblance of colour to her skin. When the elevator dinged to let her know she'd arrived at her floor, she straightened her spine and walked out.
The secretary let her pass wordlessly, steps sure and steady on the marble tile of the waiting space. Along with the click of her heels, the faint bubbling of the fanciful fountain in the corner was the only sound that touched Freya's ears.
That was until she curled her hand around the handle of her father's door, emblazoned with his name in clean, solid gold letters.
Freya nearly jumped out of her skin when her mother's accusing voice fell upon her ears, "Freya Katherine Arsov, shouldn't you be in school?"
Her rock hard resolve crumbled a tad as surprised welled in her. Of course, Cassandra, that bitch straight from hell, had failed to mention that the person who was in the meeting with her father was her mother, of only to spite Freya, knowing full well that the youngest Arsov went to great lengths to avoid unexpected confrontations from both parents. Bitch.
Victoria Calvert had her hip pressed against the side of her father's sleek, glassy desk, arms crossed over her chest. As for Freya's father, he was leaned tiredly back in his rich leather chair, the fingers of his left hand caught in the strands of his blond hair, massaging the side of his head.
Freya closed the door behind her, briefly considering making a break for it. Maybe she could hide under the secretary's desk. The use of her middle name certainly made her want to. Katherine, her mother has said, the name on her birth certificate, the one that never failed to make Freya mildly nervous when used by Victoria. Conversely, her father said Katya or Katerina, and those variables of the name comforted her.
Something about her father's weary expression told her she was not going to find much comfort in this meeting. This ambush.
She fixed a playful stare upon her mother, hoping her dread didn't show. "I was," she said, which was not a lie.
Victoria pursed her red lips and shook her head mildly, the brown tresses framing her face following the small movement. Freya noticed that she was wearing all black, so was her father. She willed herself not to react as she realised that Blackburn's funeral must be today.
"We were just talking about you, solnyshka," said her father. "Sit, why don't you?"
Freya smoothed the hem of her borrowed skirt, drawing her mother's attention at the action, at the outfit, before almost unwillingly seating herself in one of the white, plush armchairs facing her father's desk and the sprawling city behind him. That desk and that view always managed to make him look like he owned the world. But he wasn't the king. No, that was Freya's mother. Freya's mother knew she was the king, the queen, the one got to shout, "Off with her head!"
Freya forced her face to remain impassive. Meanwhile, her mind was whirring. What did they know? What lie did she have to tell to make them stop scrutinising her?
Her mother, a lawyer, a professional teller of lies, studied her. Victoria tapped a manicured hand against the glass of the desk, the light from the large glass behind the desk casting her tall frame in an aura of gold. She looked fearsome, regal as she tipped her chin at Freya and observed, "You didn't tell your father yesterday about your detention."
Freya scoffed, gaze cutting between the pair. "Since when do you two care about my detention?"
"We care, Freya," chimed in her father, pale eyes intent upon his daughter.
Ever since Russia, she'd noticed them putting effort into reminding her of that. That they cared.
Freya swallowed and cast her gaze to her mother. "Is this what you two were talking about? My detention?"
"The headmistress told me about the circumstances under which you got the detention." Victoria returned her stare.
"You didn't tell us about the boy." Rage simmered beneath her father's words and Freya watched as his hand curled into a fist atop his desk.
It took her a moment to realise they meant Theodore Altringham, who had faded, like an insignificant insect, from her mind.
Freya shifted in her seat, feigning discomfort over discussing Theodore, when really she only felt anger, fearsome rage, toward him, on Maye's behalf. However, the discomfort in her reply wasn't wholly faked. "I've been through worse."
Her mother's eyes softened, shoulders slumping as much as her elegant frame would allow. Her father glanced away, an expression crossing his face that Freya couldn't describe.
"We're worried, Freya," her father said, after a moment.
Join the club, thought Freya.
"I'm fine," she said, straightening in the seat and flashing a smile. Her insides hurt.
Her mother closed her eyes for a moment, Freya's lie physically hurting her. When she opened then, she fixed the stare on Freya and asked, "Then why did you visit Blackburn two weeks ago?"
Freya's heart stopped in her chest. It stopped and started again. It's harsh rhythm pounded hard against her ears. She steadied her hands and forced a convincing, nonchalant laugh from her throat. "Oh, that!" Freya chuckled. "How do you even know about that?"
Her mother narrowed her eyes at her, at her amusement. She couldn't tell if she was lying or not. "He was my associate, Freya," said her mother, a brief hitch in her voice registering her mourning for the late lawyer. "Do you think he'd fail to mention that my daughter visited him in the middle of the night?"
But he'd failed to tell them why she'd visited. Lawyers had no loyalty, she should've known this. It was something her mother always said. No loyalty except for anyone but themselves.
Blackburn had told but he hadn't told all, perhaps fearing for his own safety. He should've feared more. Now, he was dead because he wasn't afraid enough of Andre Kirova.
Freya tilted her head at her mother, ignoring the twisting guilt. "If you must know, it was for Juliet."
Her mother blinked at her. "Juliet Grimaldi?"
"Yes," lied Freya. "Her parents are getting a divorce and she had some questions, so I went to him to get the answers for her."
"You could've asked me," challenged Victoria.
"No offence, mum," Freya supplied, "but you're not exactly the best marriage lawyer out there."
Her mother straightened, insulted.
Nikolai let loose a chuckle at that though, and Freya willed herself to breathe then. She was out of the woods, hopefully.
Victoria cleared her throat. "I suppose you know, then, that Blackburn had a heart attack. His funeral is at noon. So, any more questions you have to ask for Juliet can come my way."
Freya nodded, impassive.
The silence stretched for a moment. A moment of silence perhaps, for Blackburn.
"I don't think you came here to get interrogated by your mother," her father guessed, breaking the moment.
Freya sat up and nodded. "I lost my wallet and my phone sometime yesterday, probably outside the restaurant," she lied. She had no intention of telling them she'd been kidnapped, held at gunpoint and later rescued by the boy next door who happened to be a gang leader.
"Oh," said her father, believing her, "that's careless of you, solnyshka."
"Irresponsible," supplied her mother.
"Maybe it was stolen," said Freya with a shrug.
Lottie certainly wasn't getting a cent out of her, which is why gratefulness blossomed in her chest when her father, with a shake of his head, said, "I'll cancel those cards then and get you some new ones." The loss of a few credit cards was nothing to a man worth billions, after all. "In the meantime, you can use one of these." Her father fished into a drawer and pulled out a Mastercard Gold Card. He tossed it to her casually.
"Spasiba," beamed Freya.
"Ne za chto." Her father smiled.
"English, please," her mother bemoaned.
Her father swirled his gaze upon Victoria, eyes warm. "Certainly you know what that means by now, dear?"
"I do," snapped her mother, but a small smile was pulling at her lips.
With a smirk, Freya said to her father in Russian, "She's just angry because she understands it at the level of a child."
Nikolai chuckled at that while her mother shot a glare her way, but again, she was smiling. "I understood that," replied her mother, in shaky Russian.
The laughter that ensued was light, and for a moment, laughing in her father's office with her parents, Freya could forget the world closing in around her, forget that the funeral they were currently dressed for was all her fault, forget that her phone and cards had been stolen because she'd decided to kiss a gang leader, she could forget it all, briefly.
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ANAKIN GROANED, GROGGY, AS HE tumbled out of the tangle of sheets on his bed, woken by the sound of a ringing phone.
He didn't recall falling asleep last night, his thoughts so laden with yesterday's events.
Matthew had given him a meaningful look before he'd left the warehouse yesterday and, coupled with the spectral state that Freya Arsova had been wearing, Anakin had been given a lot to process. And process he did, long into the early hours of the morning, scowling, as Chad, his roommate, shifted and snored like a pig in his sleep.
A glance at the empty nest of sheets on the other bed told him that Chad was long gone, which was a relief to Anakin, who was certain he might wound up pushing the boy out of the window between their beds one of these days.
This relief quickly died in his chest when he spotted the Unknown Caller name flashing across the screen of one of the many phones littering his desk.
Immediately frowning, Anakin picked up the glowing phone and slid to answer, his hand tightening its hold of the cell once the other voice answered. "Zdravstvuy, Alexei."
He was not surprised. He was never surprised by Kirova, only angered and disgusted. Never surprised. The man was a creature of habit, after all.
Through gritted teeth, Anakin spat in Russian, "Why are you calling?"
Kirova let loose a rumble of laughter. In English, the crime lord responded, amusement tingling his tone, "To gloat? What is that they say? Ah yes! To say 'I told you so'?"
Hatred, hard, fast and flowing, surged through Anakin. It didn't matter that it wasn't Kirova who had kidnapped Freya yesterday. It didn't matter that it had been Lottie Sheridan. Anakin still blamed him for all of it. If he hadn't thrust Matthew into Du Morts, Lottie Sheridan wouldn't have kidnapped Freya Arsov to get to him. In the end, it all circled back to Kirova, the vile Minotaur at the centre of this twisted, messy labyrinth.
"Go the fuck to hell," swore Anakin, poison dripping from his words.
Kirova tsked on the other end of the phone and Anakin was tempted to fling this one out the window too. After all, he carried several phones with him, as well as three laptops. He'd developed a knack for tech from a young age, surrounded by Kirova's hackers and highly paid technological geniuses. It didn't take him long to figure out that maybe he was just as good as those geniuses.
His skill with computers was what saved Matthew's ass about a dozen times, in the past. It was how they'd known Lottie Sheridan's location yesterday. He'd taken extra long tracking that though. Initially, he'd tried tracking Freya's phone, only to be met with a protective barrier straight from hell. He could've cracked it, but time was of the essence. And then there was the girl in the cab with him, shooting glares his way as he furiously tapped away at his device, trying to locate her friend. Eventually, he'd used the number that had called Matthew to find Lottie.
Part of him was mildly pissed that he had sat on the sidelines for that confrontation. Anakin didn't usually care to be in the brunt of De Morts' dirty work. It just wasn't where his skill was. But this had been different. Which was probably exactly why Matthew had him sit it out, instead, left to stew beneath the cautious, mascara-lashed gazes of the girls of Ebony House.
"Would you kiss your mother with that mouth, Alexei?" He heard the grin in Kirova's voice. The taunt. The mockery.
Anakin slammed his eyes shut and didn't open them until his breathing evened, just barely though. "Do not speak of my mother, Kirova."
Andre chuckled darkly, ignoring Anakin's warning completely, unbothered as ever. "You have never known her, Alexei. There is no need to be angry."
Anakin's palm came slamming down upon his desk, hard enough to send stinging pain through the flesh. "I will kill you," he roared. "I am going to kill you," Anakin promised, growling, in a softer tone.
Kirova cooed, "Now, now, uspoykoysya, Alexei. We were close once, you and I. You loved me. I was your father."
"Never," hissed Anakin, phone tight between his palm, his other hand curling atop his desk. "Never again." Steel flooded his veins.
Kirova made a disappointed sound. Anakin imagined him shaking his head the same way he used to do when he was a boy and had done something he disapproved of.
Nyet, Alexei, you do not play with those children.
Stop fidgeting, Alexei.
Aim for the heart, Alexei. Nyet, you soft-hearted boy! Pick up the gun. Now.
"If that is how it is to be, son," said Kirova, pausing to let the word settle like a weight between Anakin's shoulder blades, chilling at the steel of his blood, "I suppose I shall wait and see who will try to kill me first. You or Freya Arsova. Wait, indeed, I will."
"Do not come near Freya Arsova or her friends ever again," threatened Anakin, his rage bubbling over the surface of his skin at the veiled threats, always so thinly veiled, but unable to be missed by Anakin. "If you even dare, I will put a bullet in your heart, Andre."
A soft silence bracketed the end at that. He wondered, for a wild moment, if he'd managed to surprise Andre Kirova with how much he hated him. Never in his entire life, had he managed to shock Kirova.
And never would he, it appeared.
Kirova's reply came as an appraising, "I am truly proud of you, son."
"Go to hell," repeated Anakin.
A soft rumble of laughter before the line went dead.
And like that, Anakin had drawn a line in the sand that hadn't been there before.
He inhaled a cracked breath, realising this.
Anakin was still bent over the desk, shoulders tight and filled with fury, phone still in hand, when the door of his dorm pushed open to reveal a wide-eyed Raina al Hassan, a purple and grey scarf wound around her golden brown neck.
Anakin whirled, closing his eyes at himself for being a stupid fool and not even thinking about who might be listening.
A life with Kirova should've taught him that someone was always listening.
"How much of that did you hear?" He asked, tiredly.
Brown eyes still wide and wary, of him, he realised, Raina only said, "So clearly, you owe me a couple of explanations, Alexei."
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raina is such a firecracker. i hope you enjoyed this scene of two of my most interesting characters.
thank you for reading!!