Family Reunion

LIAM

“Is everyone clear on the schedule?” Wyatt asked as we made our way to the departures at Stockholm Arlanda, surrounded by our usual entourage of security.

“Yes, Captain,” Harri replied, rolling her eyes.

Jeb trailed several paces behind us. It was taking everything in me not to beat his face in, but I was too busy refreshing the news app homepage on my phone.

In truth, I was freaking out.

Wyatt and Luce had practically ~dragged~ me to the airport, trying to convince me the police would apprehend the sick bastard.

That there was nothing else I could do besides pass along what information we had.

That Freya would be safe.

But maybe it was already too late.

I hardly had time to process her leaving me, or my heartbreak.

All I could think about was his hands on her…

I gritted my teeth, trying to control my ragged breathing.

The anxiety that was currently coming in unbearable waves was only reigned in by my rage.

Lucinda, who’d clung dutifully to my side, dug into her purse as it began to vibrate, and I couldn’t help but hold my breath.

As Luce glanced down at her phone, I watched the color drain from her face. “It’s a New York number,” she murmured, glancing at me.

Before I had time to make a grab for the phone, she answered it.

We’d stopped completely now, halting our entire entourage, and I tuned out Wyatt’s protests.

“Yes, this is she,” Luce spoke into the phone, before falling silent for the longest minute of my life.

I tried to scrutinize her face—to discern whether Freya was safe.

Whether she was ~alive~.

But Luce’s usual tight expression was impossible to read.

“Thank you for keeping us updated,” she said finally, hanging up.

I practically jumped on her. “Who was it? Is she alright? Did he—did he hurt her?” I demanded, grabbing hold of her shoulder.

“Liam,” Luce replied, taking my hand and squeezing it. “Breathe. Okay?”

“That was Mason. Freya is safe,” Luce continued, and I finally released my breath.

~Thank God.~

“The police apprehended the guy just in time. She’s going to stay with her brother.”

“But—”

“That’s all he told me,” Luce interjected, shaking her head. “She’s fine, Liam. ~You’re~ fine.”

Her words struck a chord in me.

~Am I fine?~

~I don’t feel fine.~

~I feel like I’m going to throw up…~

~I need her back.~

~I can’t live without her.~

Suddenly, the departure terminal was starting to spin.

~What am I doing here?~

~Why am I not with her?~

“Liam?” Lucinda’s voice seemed to echo from a distant plane.

“Liam, what do you think you’re—”

Before I even knew what I was doing, I took off across the airport, furiously weaving through the herd of travelers.

~I have to see her.~

~I have to win her back.~

FREYA

I woke the following morning with a sense of clarity—for the first time in weeks.

Maybe I didn’t quite know who I was, or what I would do next, but I was done with the toxicity that had seeped into my life.

And no matter how much I missed Liam, how much his absence felt like a gaping hole in the middle of my chest, I would push past it.

Eventually.

I reluctantly slid out of Mason’s bed—he’d insisted that I take the bed and him the couch—dreading the interaction with my father that was undoubtedly looming over me.

I still didn’t feel ready to speak to him, but I knew it was inevitable.

My father was waiting for me in Mason’s kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee. I shuffled into the room, ignoring him, and poured myself the largest cup that I could find.

As I turned in retreat to Mase’s bedroom, he finally spoke.

“Freya, wait.”

I stalled unwillingly, my back turned to him, feeling my grip tightening around the Stanford mug.

“I know you’re not ready to talk to me,” said my dad, “but I have some things I need to say to you. If you would please just listen to me, I promise I’ll leave you alone. I’ll go back to LA.”

My pride and fear were overtaken by another drive…the desire to see my father restored to his old self.

We hadn’t always seen eye to eye when I was younger, but when it came to my art and my accomplishments, he’d been my biggest fan.

My protector.

He’d become nothing more than a shadow of that man.

I turned slowly to face him, finally looking at him for the first time.

Though his hair had grayed and thinned a little more since I’d last seen him, and the crease lines on his forehead had become more prominent, he was the same.

And as I stared into my father’s piercing blue eyes, which sagged under the weight of guilt and despair, rather than that of alcohol, for a moment I thought I saw a flicker of the man he used to be.

The headstrong lawyer who could take on the world.

The wise, caring man who seemed to know everything.

~Is it possible he’s changed?~

~Does it matter?~

“Fine,” I whispered, holding back the tears.

***

The December wind bit and blistered against my skin, and I burrowed deeper into Mason’s scarf.

My father and I walked side-by-side, circling the pond in Battery Park.

I was waiting for him to speak…to tell me his excuse for the last few years I lived under his roof and the horrors he’d inflicted, but he remained silent.

~He’s nervous.~

“I can never make up for what I’ve done,” he said quietly.

I tugged nervously on the fringe of my scarf.

“I stole your life from you. Any kind of future that you wanted—it was—it was my ~fault~.” His voice cracked, forcing me to look away.

I couldn’t bear to see him like this, no matter what he’d done.

“All of—all of ~this,~” he continued, gesturing to the heavy bruising on my neck, “and your mother—it’s all my fault.”

I didn’t have to look to know he was crying.

“But you blamed ~me,~” I croaked suddenly, and he startled at my voice. “That night. You said…” I couldn’t finish the thought.

I felt him flinch at the mention of that dark memory.

“I couldn’t face what I’d done,” he murmured. “It was too painful. I felt like I couldn’t go on living with the knowledge…”

I spun around to face him, feeling the unsolicited tears slowly breaching the barrier and spilling down my face. “~What~ knowledge?” I demanded.

“That I killed her,” he whispered.

I let the words sink in, unsure of what they meant.

“Seven years ago, I took on a new client. They—they had some serious evidence of corruption—among other things…” He shook his head. “Against some very rich, very powerful people.”

“It was,” he continued, and I watched as his mind traveled somewhere else, “shocking. The influence of these people…”

“Who?” I whispered, feeling a psychosomatic chill dart down my spine.

“The corruption in this country—the legal system, the government, the economy, everything—it’s ~them~. A handful of old-money families who are practically untouchable.”

My father shuddered.

A sickening feeling of dread took hold of me.

~He’s not saying what I think he’s saying.~

~Is he?~

“I began receiving photos…Mase at Stanford, or you and your mother out shopping. Threats...

“I thought about dropping the case,” he continued, “but I wanted to take them down. I thought it was the right thing to do. That I would be making a difference in the world. Actually helping people. And then…”

A fresh supply of tears poured down his face. “You and I had that fight. And your mom chased after you, and…they made real on their threats…”

“You blamed me,” I murmured.

“I’m so sorry, Frey. None of it was your fault. None of it.”

My father stopped before a park bench and took a seat, resting his face in his hands.

“It makes me sick what I did to you. And I know you may never be able to forgive me, but I just needed you to know the whole truth.”

Staring down at his crumpled form, there was nothing I could do but let the tears fall.

I sat down beside my dad, placing a shaky arm around his frame.

He peeled his tear-streaked face from his hands and turned to look at me in surprise.

“I think—” I began, uncertain, “I think that maybe ~someday~ I can learn to forgive you,” I told him softly, shocked by the words as they escaped my lips. “But it’s going to take some time.”

“I’m so proud of you, Freya,” he said. “You’ve become the woman that your mother and I always hoped. You’re independent, and you’re too smart to put up with people disappointing you. Like me. Like Mason.”

There was another name he conveniently left off the list, but I felt its presence all the same.

~Like Liam.~

“You’re going to be okay. I know it.” He smiled.

~Am I?~

His words stirred in me a desperate desire to make them true.

I had spent so much time hurt and burdened by the men in my life.

But now, I would focus on myself for the first time in a very, ~very~ long time.

And the more I reflected, the more I realized that I hadn’t entirely severed my ties with Liam.

My belongings and my art still filled his home, serving as a reminder of my absence.

It would haunt Liam every time he looked at them.

He wouldn’t be able to move on.

And in the wake of everything we had endured, we both deserved the right to move on with our lives.

***

“Hello?”

My voice seemed to echo off of the living room walls, reflecting just how empty the apartment was.

Without Liam, it was nothing more than a collection of fine, unlived-in furniture.

The air felt stale.

Empty.

~He didn’t leave the tour this time.~

I heaved a massive sigh of relief.

I stared down at the bucket of white paint in my hand.

What I intended to do with it felt like utter betrayal.

Cruel, even.

But as I stared wistfully at the chaotic mural on his living room wall, my footprint on this fortress, I knew it had to be done.

It had to be erased.

I quickly went to work painting over the mural, feeling a soft stream of tears falling down my face. With each stroke of the brush, I could feel our brief life together fading away.

~It was just a dream.~

Once the wall was entirely covered in white, I took a step back to inspect my work, setting the brush back into the bucket.

“Freya.”

My entire body went rigid at the sound of the voice.

~His~ voice.

There was no part of me that was ready to face Liam, but there he was, standing in the doorway, looking worse than I’d ever seen him.

My heart broke as his face suddenly lit up with misguided hope.

Then his eyes flew over to the freshly painted wall. To my collection of painted canvases leaning against the couch.

“Why are you—what are you—”

“I just came to get my paintings,” I said, cutting him off. “And then I’m gone.”

Liam closed the distance between us, his hand coming up to my touch my face.

I took a step back, escaping his touch.

It was more than I could bear.

“He hurt you,” Liam whispered as he inspected the bruising on my neck.

“It’s over with,” I told him. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

It killed me watching the despair cross his face, but I knew it was a necessary casualty—unavoidable.

“Frey, you can’t—please don’t—”

“I can’t be a part of your life anymore,” I choked out. “The space that you want me to fill doesn’t fit me. It never will.”

“I’m so sorry,” Liam pleaded. “For everything. For—for how I acted, and for Jeb, and that I wasn’t there to protect you…”

“I know,” I replied, taking a step toward him to take hold of his hand.

Every part of me begged to prolong the moment, but I knew I couldn’t.

“I forgive you, Liam. I just wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I stayed. Take care of yourself.”

And with those parting words, I withdrew my hands from his, took my collection of paintings, and walked away, my ears unable to tune out his pleas for me to stay.

As elevators doors closed behind me, I pushed past the raw emotion threatening to spill over.

It was time to put myself first.