The Unexpected Enemy

CHAPTER 4: SECRET MEETING

As Freya descended the grand staircase, the soft clatter of a broom brushing against the polished marble floor caught her attention. It was Christina, their loyal housemaid, meticulously sweeping away even the tiniest specks of dust. The morning sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, casting a golden glow upon the intricate patterns of the tiles. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread wafted through the air, a familiar yet comforting aroma that usually signaled the start of a peaceful morning.

Yet, despite the serenity of her surroundings, an unease gnawed at Freya’s mind.

"Good morning, Christina," Freya greeted with a gentle smile. Her voice was calm, yet there was a slight hint of urgency hidden beneath her words. "Have you seen Mama and Papa?"

Christina looked up from her task, returning the young lady’s smile with warmth. "Good morning, Senyorita Freya," she responded politely. "Senyora Carmen is in the garden, tending to the roses. As for Senyor Gustavo, he left quite early for the office."

Freya came to an abrupt halt. Early? That was unusual. Her father was a man of discipline and routine, and he rarely left the house before eight in the morning. This sudden deviation from his usual schedule made something inside her stir—a small, nagging suspicion that she couldn’t quite place.

Christina, noticing the shift in Freya’s expression, tilted her head slightly in concern. "You seem troubled, Senyorita. Is something wrong?"

Freya quickly composed herself, pushing aside her thoughts. There was no reason to overthink. At least, not yet. She forced a small smile, hoping it would conceal her unease. "Oh, it’s nothing, Christina. I was just wondering about something." She adjusted the loose strand of hair that had fallen over her face and straightened her posture. "I’ll head down now," she added before continuing her descent.

However, despite her efforts to dismiss the lingering doubt, she could not shake off the unsettling feeling creeping up her spine. Why did Papa leave so early?

Then, a memory flashed in her mind—last night’s conversation.

She had not meant to eavesdrop, nor had she intended to pry, but the hushed voices by the swimming pool had caught her attention. Under the cover of darkness, she had recognized her father’s deep, authoritative tone. And the other voice? It belonged to Lysandra Suarez. The mere recollection of that name made Freya’s heartbeat quicken. Lysandra was a woman known for her cunning and influence, someone who always had an agenda.

Her father’s secretive demeanor, paired with that private conversation, was now beginning to make sense.

Freya reached the bottom of the stairs, but instead of heading to the dining room, she veered toward the small console table near the entrance, where her phone was resting. With swift fingers, she unlocked the device and dialed her father’s secretary.

"Good morning, Ma’am Freya," the familiar voice greeted her on the other end of the line.

"Good morning," she replied, her tone steady but laced with curiosity. "Has my father arrived at the office yet?"

There was a brief pause, followed by a hesitant response. "Ah… not yet, Ma’am. I’ve been expecting him since early this morning, but he hasn’t come in."

Freya’s grip on her phone tightened.

So, he lied.

Her father had not gone to the office. But if not there… then where?

A rush of thoughts flooded her mind. There were many possibilities, but none of them reassured her. She inhaled deeply, trying to keep herself calm. She needed to think rationally. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps she was simply overanalyzing the situation.

But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the unease remained.

Her instincts told her that something was wrong.

And Freya had learned, time and time again, that her instincts were rarely mistaken.

Instead of heading to breakfast, she made a quick decision. She needed to find out where her father had gone.

Moving quietly, she slipped through the main entrance, careful not to draw attention to herself. The front garden was bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun, the gentle rustling of leaves accompanying the distant chirping of birds. The family’s chauffeur, Ramon, was near the garage, wiping down the sleek black car her father often used.

She approached him, trying to appear casual. "Ramon," she called.

He turned, wiping his hands on a cloth before giving a polite nod. "Good morning, Senyorita Freya. How may I assist you?"

"Did my father take the car this morning?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Ramon hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough for Freya to notice. "No, Ma’am. He left in another vehicle."

Another vehicle?

A chill ran down Freya’s spine. Her father always used their family car for business trips. If he had left in a different vehicle, that meant he had gone somewhere he didn’t want anyone to know about.

"Do you know who picked him up?" she pressed.

Ramon shook his head. "I’m sorry, Senyorita, but I don’t."

Freya thanked him before stepping back, her mind racing. There was only one way to find out the truth—she needed to investigate on her own.

After changing into something less conspicuous, Freya quietly made her way out of the estate, slipping into a cab she had called moments earlier. "Follow the usual route to my father’s office," she instructed the driver.

As the car rolled through the streets, she kept her eyes peeled for any sign of her father’s whereabouts. The roads were bustling with morning activity—vendors setting up stalls, students hurrying to school, businessmen heading to their offices. It was an ordinary day for most people.

But not for her.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, something caught her eye—a black sedan parked discreetly in front of a high-end café. It was the same model her father used when he wanted to avoid drawing attention.

"Stop here," she told the driver, handing him the fare before stepping out.

She approached the café cautiously, her heartbeat quickening with every step. Peering through the large glass windows, she spotted him.

Her father.

Sitting at a secluded corner table.

And across from him—Lysandra Suarez.

Freya inhaled sharply.

What are you doing, Papa?

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay composed. Instead of storming in, she opted for a different approach. She entered the café quietly, keeping a safe distance, positioning herself where she could observe without being noticed.

From where she sat, she could see them clearly. Her father leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together on the table. He looked tense. Lysandra, on the other hand, was the picture of confidence—her posture relaxed, a sly smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Freya strained to hear their conversation.

"…I warned you, Gustavo," Lysandra’s voice carried a subtle edge. "You knew this day would come."

Her father’s jaw tightened. "You can’t keep using this against me."

Lysandra chuckled, stirring her coffee leisurely. "Oh, but I can. And I will—unless you cooperate."

Freya’s stomach churned.

What hold did Lysandra have over her father?

"You know what’s at stake," her father murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "If this gets out—"

"Then it’ll be your perfect little family that suffers," Lysandra finished for him, her tone dripping with satisfaction.

Freya felt her breath hitch.

This wasn’t just a casual business meeting.

This was blackmail.

And her father was trapped.

A heavy weight settled in her chest. Her father—Gustavo Delos Santos, the man she had always admired—was at the mercy of this woman.

She clenched her fists beneath the table.

She didn’t know what Lysandra had on him.

But she was going to find out.

No matter the cost.