The Unexpected Enemy

Chapter 9: The Escape and a New Beginning

Three days had passed.

Three long, excruciating days since Carmen had stood before the court, her voice trembling yet filled with desperation, pleading for justice. She had laid bare her pain, her loss, and the deep betrayal that had befallen them. She had recounted the suspicious circumstances under which Gustavo had signed away everything—how the documents had appeared out of nowhere, how the people surrounding him had acted with a strange urgency, how Lysandra had maneuvered her way into their family’s affairs with impeccable timing.

But none of it was enough.

The law did not move based on emotion. It did not respond to heartbreak. It sought only what was concrete, what could be proven beyond doubt. And in the absence of undeniable evidence, Carmen’s pleas fell on deaf ears. The court had ruled against them.

Their fate was sealed.

And now, the day they had dreaded most had arrived—the day they had to leave.

The grand mansion that had once been the heart of their family now stood like a silent witness to their downfall. Its tall, majestic walls, once filled with warmth, now loomed cold and indifferent. The marble floors, which had echoed with laughter and hurried footsteps, now carried only the weight of their loss. Every corner of the house had been touched by their memories—memories that would soon be swept away by a new owner, as if they had never existed at all.

Freya stood motionless at the doorway, her fingers tightening around the handle of her worn-out suitcase. The familiar scent of the house still lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what they were losing. She had spent her entire life within these walls. Every inch of this mansion was a part of her, woven into the fabric of her childhood. The mere thought of stepping away from it—of never setting foot inside again—felt like losing a piece of herself.

Beside her, Carmen moved sluggishly, as though every step drained what little strength remained in her body. The weight of the past few days had taken its toll on her. Her usually composed posture was now slumped, her shoulders heavy with grief. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the strap of her bag, her gaze unfocused.

Yet despite the unbearable heaviness in their hearts, they had no choice but to move forward.

The grand doors stood wide open, revealing the lavish interior they were being forced to abandon. Sunlight streamed through the towering windows, illuminating the chandeliers that still hung from the high ceilings. It was as if the house itself had refused to acknowledge their pain, standing just as grand and magnificent as it had always been.

But as they stepped out into the cold morning air, they were not met with silence.

Lysandra was waiting.

She stood at the foot of the grand staircase, her presence a sharp contrast to the grief-stricken figures before her. Her expression was calm, composed—but beneath that practiced poise lay something unmistakable.

Triumph.

The curve of her lips, the glint in her eyes, the way she held herself—it all spoke of victory. She had won, and she knew it.

Freya felt a familiar fire rise in her chest at the sight of her. She could feel her pulse quicken, her fists clench involuntarily. She wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug expression off Lysandra’s face, to strip away the confidence that had no right to exist.

But she couldn’t afford to lose control.

She couldn’t give Lysandra the satisfaction of seeing her break.

"The house is now open for its new owner," Lysandra said, her voice laced with mock sympathy, though the underlying amusement was impossible to miss.

As if on cue, the quiet rumble of an approaching vehicle filled the air.

Freya turned her head slightly, just in time to see a sleek black car roll up the driveway, its polished exterior reflecting the golden morning light. The tires crunched against the gravel as the car came to a slow halt, and for a brief moment, all was still.

Then, the back door swung open.

Ariana stepped out.

She hesitated as she took in the scene before her—the grand mansion towering behind her, Lysandra standing with silent authority, and the mother and daughter standing in front of the gates, stripped of everything they had once owned.

Her gaze flickered towards Freya, her expression unreadable.

Freya held her breath for a moment, searching for something—anything—in Ariana’s face. Was she pleased with this outcome? Did she feel guilt? Did she pity them?

It didn’t matter.

Whatever Ariana thought, whatever emotions lingered in her hesitant gaze, Freya had no interest in knowing. She didn’t need Ariana’s sympathy. She didn’t need anyone’s pity.

Without another word, she turned away.

She did not look back—not at Lysandra’s victorious smirk, not at Ariana’s uncertain stare, and certainly not at the house that had been her home for as long as she could remember.

They walked away, their footsteps heavy, the path ahead feeling impossibly long.

Carmen’s voice, soft and trembling, finally broke the silence.

"Anak… where are we going?"

Freya reached for her mother’s hand, squeezing it gently. Despite the storm raging inside her, she forced her voice to remain steady.

"I know someone, Mama. We have a place to stay."

She didn’t elaborate.

Not yet.

Their journey took them farther from the wealth and security they had once known. As they moved deeper into the city, the world around them seemed to shift. The tall buildings and well-kept estates gradually disappeared, replaced by narrower streets and smaller houses. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of street food, damp concrete, and distant smoke.

Finally, they arrived.

A small, run-down apartment stood at the end of a dimly lit alley. Its walls, once painted a vibrant color, had faded over time. The windows bore cracks, their frames warped from years of neglect. The air inside was stale, filled with the scent of old wood and dust.

It was nothing like the home they had once known.

But it was all they had.

Carmen hesitated at the entrance, her fingers trembling as she brushed them against the rusted doorknob. She didn’t speak, but Freya saw the pain in her mother’s eyes—the silent grief of a woman who had lost everything.

Freya inhaled deeply before stepping inside.

The apartment was sparse, furnished with only the bare essentials. A small couch, its fabric worn thin, sat against one wall. A wooden table, unsteady on its legs, stood in the center of the room. A single window allowed what little daylight remained to seep in, casting elongated shadows across the floor.

It wasn’t home.

But it would have to do.

Carmen sank onto the couch, exhaustion evident in the way her body slumped forward. She stared at the floor, unmoving, her breathing slow and shallow.

Then, at last, she spoke.

"Freya… how do we rise from this?"

Freya stilled.

How?

How did they move forward after losing everything? How did they rebuild when they had nothing left?

She didn’t have all the answers.

But she knew one thing.

Lysandra had taken everything from them with frightening ease. Gustavo’s death had been too convenient. The court’s decision had been too swift. Everything felt orchestrated, planned.

This wasn’t over.

Her jaw tightened as she met her mother’s gaze, determination burning in her eyes.

"This isn’t the end, Mama," she said firmly.

"Lysandra may think she’s won, but I refuse to let her destroy us."

Her hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"I will show her that we are not so easily defeated."