CHAPTER 3: A TRUTH UNVEILED
1189 Words
Freya’s heart pounded violently against her ribs as her father and Lysandra turned in unison to face her. The weight of their gazes felt suffocating, pressing down on her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her entire body. In that instant, she felt as if time had frozen—her limbs locked in place, her mind racing yet utterly incapable of forming a coherent thought.
The man who had always been her pillar of strength, Gustavo Delos Santos, stood before her with an expression she could not decipher. His dark eyes, usually filled with warmth and wisdom, were clouded with something unfamiliar—something distant, guarded. His presence, which had always exuded authority and control, now seemed… diminished. The slight tension in his posture, the barely noticeable clenching of his jaw, the way his hands twitched ever so slightly at his sides—it all spoke of a man unsettled, a man not entirely in control of the situation before him.
His voice, though calm on the surface, carried an edge of tension when he finally spoke.
“Freya.”
It was not a greeting, nor a question. It was a warning.
"What are you doing here?"
The sharpness of his tone cut through her daze, jolting her into awareness. She barely had time to process it before she felt Lysandra’s piercing gaze lock onto her. There was something predatory about the way the woman looked at her—measuring, assessing, as though calculating whether or not she was a threat that needed to be dealt with.
Freya’s pulse quickened. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, to escape before she gave away too much.
She swallowed hard, forcing her lips into what she hoped was a casual, harmless smile. Control yourself. Don’t let them see you panic.
“Oh! Nothing! I was just passing by!” she blurted out, her voice too high, too fast.
Lysandra narrowed her eyes, her perfectly manicured fingers tapping lightly against her arm as though contemplating something.
Freya felt her palms dampen with sweat. Think, Freya. Think!
She forced a small laugh, praying it sounded natural. “I… I left my phone in the bathroom! I should go get it!”
The moment the words left her mouth, she didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and walked—no, ran—out of the corridor.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears as she sped down the long, dimly lit hallway. She felt the weight of their stares lingering behind her, burning into her back, making her entire body feel like it was on fire.
Don’t look back. Just keep moving.
As soon as she rounded the corner and was out of their sight, she broke into a full sprint. The heels of her shoes clicked against the polished stone floor, each step echoing ominously in the vast estate. The air inside the mansion suddenly felt thick, suffocating, as though the very walls were closing in around her.
Freya had spent her entire life in this house. It had always been a place of warmth, of safety—its grand halls filled with laughter, its elegant chandeliers glowing with the soft golden light of home.
But tonight, it felt different.
It felt like a trap.
A prison made of marble and secrets.
She had to get out—away from her father, away from Lysandra, away from whatever dark truth she had just stumbled upon.
As she neared the grand entrance, she forced herself to slow down. There were still guests milling about, chatting, laughing, sipping their expensive wine, blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside her mind.
She couldn’t afford to cause a scene.
She couldn’t let anyone know what she had just heard.
From across the room, she spotted her mother, Carmen, seated at the long dining table, engaged in lively conversation with the other women. She looked so… carefree. So blissfully unaware of the deception lurking just beyond the walls of this grand estate.
For a brief moment, Freya felt the overwhelming urge to go to her, to shake her, to tell her everything.
But what would she even say?
She didn’t even understand what she had heard.
What did Lysandra mean when she said, “If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to tell Carmen about us”?
What secret did she hold over her father?
And more importantly… why did he look so powerless in front of her?
Freya clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms.
No. Now isn’t the time. You need to think. You need to be careful.
Without stopping to acknowledge anyone, she hurried up the grand staircase, taking two steps at a time, until she finally reached the sanctuary of her bedroom.
The moment she shut the door behind her, she pressed her back against it, breathing heavily.
The silence of her room was deafening.
Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, her emotions a tangled mess of fear, confusion, and something deeper—something she dared not name just yet.
She took slow, shaky steps toward her bed, then sank onto the mattress, burying her face in her hands.
What did I just witness?
Her father—her strong, honorable father—had looked weak in front of Lysandra.
Powerless.
And Lysandra…
Lysandra had spoken with such confidence, such control.
“Imagine how that would affect your perfect reputation… your precious family.”
The words echoed in her mind, each syllable sinking deeper into her bones.
Whatever secret they were hiding, it was something big.
Something dangerous.
Freya had always admired her father—Gustavo Delos Santos, the esteemed businessman, the devoted husband, the man who had built their empire with integrity and honor.
But now… now she wasn’t sure if she knew him at all.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry.
Crying won’t solve anything.
She needed to think.
She needed answers.
And no matter what it took…
She was going to get them.
For several minutes, she remained still, listening to the soft ticking of the clock on her nightstand. The grand chandelier hanging above her cast a dim glow across the room, its light catching on the golden embroidery of her curtains. Outside, the sound of crickets filled the night air, an eerie contrast to the storm raging within her.
Then, a soft knock.
Freya’s breath hitched.
She sat up, her pulse spiking.
Who could it be?
For a moment, she considered ignoring it. But then the knock came again, firmer this time.
She swallowed hard, pushing herself to her feet. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the door.
Her fingers hovered over the handle.
Then, with a deep breath, she turned it.
The door creaked open.
And standing there, bathed in the dim glow of the hallway light… was her father.
Gustavo Delos Santos.
His face was unreadable, his expression carefully masked.
But his eyes—they held something she had never seen before.
A silent plea.
A warning.
A secret.
And in that moment, Freya knew…
She was about to hear something that would change everything.
- Writer
