FREYA’S POV
My fists pounded the oak door, my knuckles ached, and my voice cracked as I screamed for Father to let me out. The room smelled of lavender and dust, my silk dress clung to my sweaty skin, and my blonde hair tangled over my shoulders. I kicked the door, my bare feet throbbed, and I shouted again, demanding the servants fetch Father, certain my tantrum would force his hand, as it always had.
Hours earlier, I heard his car rumble away, gravel crunched under tires, and my heart sank, realizing he left me locked in, his orders clear, his patience gone. I paced the plush rug, my eyes darted to the locked window, shutters barred, and my anger flared, convinced he’d cave, unable to resist his only daughter, his favorite, his princess.
A knock sounded, soft but firm, and a servant’
