Chapter 8
1401 คำ
FREYA SINCLAIR
The manor gates open like something out of a movie.
Tall iron bars glide apart silently, revealing a long, sweeping driveway lined with manicured hedges and discreet but unmistakable security. Men in black suits stand at measured distances, earpieces gleaming under the lights. This isn’t just a birthday party. It’s a controlled environment. A fortress dressed up as a celebration.
Before Rowan even opened the door, I heard the voices, cameras, the sharp crack of shutters going off like fireworks. Media. Lots of it. They are literally everywhere.
Rowan steps out first, calm as ever, completely unaffected by the chaos waiting beyond the gate. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t react. He simply exists, and somehow that alone commands silence.
Then he turns back to me and offers his hand.
“Stay close,” he says quietly, like a reminder and a warning wrapped into one.
I place my hand in his, and the second I step out of the car, it hits me.
Cameras flashed nonstop, journalists called out his name Rowan! Mr. Thorne! Over here! and then, almost immediately, my own.
“Who is she?”
“Is that his girlfriend?”
“Miss, look this way!”
Rowan didn't slow. His hand tightened slightly around mine, grounding me, guiding me forward like he’s done this a hundred times before. I kept my head high, my expression composed, even though my heart was racing so hard I’m sure it could be heard over the crowd.
We passed through the gates, past the press line, and into the safety of the estate grounds.
The moment the doors closed behind us, the noise dulled but the weight of being seen doesn’t.
The manor rises ahead of us, enormous and breathtaking. Warm light spilled from towering windows, crystal chandeliers visible even from outside. The architecture is old money, the kind that doesn’t need to shout because it’s already been heard for generations.
Inside, the moment we entered the grand hall, everything stopped.
Conversations die mid-sentence. Glasses pause halfway to lips. Music continues to play softly, but it feels like the entire room inhales at once.
Every eye turns toward us.
I felt it dozens of gazes sliding over me, assessing, measuring, comparing. The women are dressed impeccably, diamonds glittering at their throats, arms looped possessively through the elbows of men who look powerful and bored in equal measure. Trophy wives. Socialites. Celebrities whose faces I’ve only ever seen on magazine covers.
And here I am.
On Rowan Carter’s arm.
Whispers rippled through the hall like a wave.
I can feel their curiosity pressing in from all sides, sharp and invasive. My back straightens instinctively, my chin lifting just a fraction more. I refuse to shrink. Not tonight.
Rowan, on the other hand, looks entirely at ease.
He moved forward with slow confidence, acknowledging greetings with brief nods, his presence parting the crowd without effort. People smile wider, stand straighter, suddenly desperate for his attention.
His hand never leaves mine.
This isn’t just revenge anymore.
And the room full of powerful people watching us knows it too. Suddenly this whole situation felt a bit too real.
Rowan’s mother stood near the center of the hall, surrounded by a small cluster of impeccably dressed women and men who looked important enough to own entire cities. She was elegant in a way that didn’t feel forced tall, poised, silver hair swept into a flawless chignon, diamonds resting casually at her throat like they’d always belonged there.
Her eyes found Rowan instantly. And softened. A smile came on her lips instantly.
“Rowan,” she said, her voice carrying across the room without effort. She didn’t wait for him to reach her. She crossed the distance herself, heels clicking against marble, arms opening wide. “My son.”
Rowan let go of my hand just long enough to return her embrace. He bent slightly to hug her, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other steady and protective at her back.
“Happy birthday,” he said quietly.
She pulled back, hands still on his arms, inspecting his face like she was making sure he was real. “You remembered,” she said, smiling. “I was beginning to think you’d send flowers and an apology again.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied dryly.
Soft laughter rippled around them.
I stood there, suddenly aware of every inch of myself. Of the fact that I was standing next to him and not being ignored. Of the way people’s gazes flicked between me and Rowan’s mother, hungry for context.
She noticed me then. Her eyes shifted sharp, curious, assessing—and landed on me.
“And who is this?” she asked, though there was no hostility in her tone. Only interest. But she looked at me from top to bottom.
Rowan’s hand came back to mine without hesitation.
“This,” he said calmly, “is Freya.” The way he said my name clear, deliberate sent a strange shiver through me.
His mother turned fully toward me, her gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. I resisted the urge to fidget. Instead, I offered a polite smile and inclined my head slightly.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I said.
She smiled back, but it was the kind of smile that asked questions instead of answering them.
“Freya,” she repeated. “And what are you to my son?”
The room felt like it leaned in. I could feel it the way conversations nearby dulled, the way people pretended not to listen while missing nothing.
Rowan didn’t hesitate.
“She’s my girlfriend,” he said. “Fiancee actually.” I heard multiple gasps.
The word landed heavy. There was an audible shift in the air. A collective intake of breath. Someone nearby dropped a spoon; it clinked loudly against a saucer.
His mother blinked once. Then twice.
“Your… girlfriend?” she echoed, clearly stunned.
“Fiancee.” Rowan corrected and his mother visibly got pale.
I felt my heart slam against my ribs. I hadn’t expected him to say it so easily. So publicly. So definitively.
“When did this happen?” she asked, her tone carefully neutral now.
Rowan’s thumb brushed lightly against the back of my hand a subtle touch that felt grounding and dangerous all at once.
“A week ago,” he said. “I proposed. She said yes.”
Silence. Not the awkward kind. The explosive kind.
I swear I felt the shock ripple outward, felt it in the way people straightened, the way whispers burst out in hushed urgency.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe as every eye in the room locked onto me like I’d just been crowned or condemned.
His mother stared at him.
Then at me.
Then back at him.
“You’re serious,” she said slowly.
“I don’t joke about things like this,” Rowan replied.
Her expression shifted not to anger, not to disbelief but to something thoughtful. Measuring.
“And you didn’t think to mention this to me?” she asked lightly, though there was steel beneath it.
“I wanted you to meet her first,” he said. “In person.”
That did something. Her gaze softened again as she looked at me, really looked this time.
“Well,” she said at last, placing a hand over mine, surprising me with the warmth of her touch. “That’s certainly one way to give your mother a birthday surprise.”
A few people laughed nervously.
She smiled at me. “Welcome, Freya. I hope you’re prepared. Being attached to a Carter tends to attract… attention.”
I managed a small smile. “I’m starting to notice and I love attention.”
Her laugh was genuine this time. Rowan squeezed my hand once, firm and steady, like a silent reminder that he was right there. But as I stood beside him, under the weight of dozens of curious, calculating stares, one thought echoed louder than all the whispers combined.
I hadn’t just stepped into Rowan Carter’s world.
He had announced me to it. And there was no going back now.
But the main problem is that I don't want to run into Rowan's little brother and my ex. Not because I feared him but rather because I don't want to ruin the surprise.
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