Freya didn’t say anything else. The words she wanted to hurl at him sat heavy on her tongue, a knot of pain that refused to untangle. Instead, she pulled away from the balcony’s edge and moved toward the small chair tucked near the corner of the terrace. She sat there slowly, almost cautiously, as if lowering herself into the weight of her own thoughts.
Her gaze lingered on Logan, studying him in silence. His shoulders were tense, his jaw locked in quiet frustration, and yet there was something in his stance—something that screamed exhaustion rather than power. For a fleeting moment, she pitied him. But that pity was short-lived, replaced by the bitterness that had been gnawing at her chest since her return.
“I wish,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the
