Twenty-Seven
The moment Max’s pristine Tesla pulled up to Freya’s childhood home, Freya sank deeper into her seat, the house a tattered, old weatherboard in the thick of Melbourne’s northern suburbs.
This house looked even worse than when she’d grown up there. Bad enough to call it a headache-inducing eyesore—the peeling paint an unappealing shade of custard yellow, the window frames and dented gutters a gag-worthy shamrock green. Even the exterior door appeared ready to fall off its hinges, while the fly wire hung loose, torn at one top corner.
As much as the sight made her queasy, staring at the house beat meeting Max’s gaze, especially since they’d arrived to this decaying hovel fresh from Luke’s lavish home. Even if she did trust Max not to judge her on her poor upbringing, she stil
