Chapter three
Modred didn’t come home that night, and honestly, I didn’t care. After I refused to cook for Diana, he blocked my number. Typical. He always acted like he could control everything. But instead of stressing over him, I decided to focus on myself. I packed a small bag and took a bus back to my hometown. I needed to pick up a few things from my childhood, things that might remind me of who I was before Modred.
The bus ride was bumpy, and the farther we went, the more familiar everything became. The same fields I used to run through as a kid, the same small houses with peeling paint, and the same dusty roads. It all looked the same, but I felt different—worn out, like I didn’t belong there anymore. Modred always said my hometown was beneath him, that my family wasn’t worth his time. I guess he was right about one thing: he’d never set foot here.
I didn’t know what Modred had told my mom, but I knew it couldn’t be good. He had a way of twisting everything, making himself the victim and me the villain. As the bus pulled up to the stop near my childhood home, I saw her—my mom—standing in the doorway, arms crossed. Her eyes darted around as if she were looking for someone else. Modred, probably. When she realized I was alone, her face changed.
“Where’s Modred?” she snapped the moment I walked up.
“He’s not coming,” I said, keeping my voice calm.
Her eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you two made up yet?”
“We’re not going to,” I replied. The second the words left my mouth, her hand flew across my face. The slap was so hard I staggered back, my cheek burning.
But that wasn’t enough for her. She grabbed me by the arm, dragging me toward the door. “You ungrateful child!” she screamed, her voice echoing down the street. People were passing by, some slowing down to watch, but she didn’t care. She never did.
Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed the wooden stick by the door—a stick she used to use on me when I was a kid—and started hitting me with it. The strikes came fast and hard, and I could barely block them.
“Modred told me everything!” she yelled, her face red with anger. “Do you know how lucky you are to have a man like him? And you can’t even keep him happy? Jealous, wild, useless—you’ve always been a disappointment!”
Her words stung more than the blows. She wasn’t just angry; she was hateful.
“You better find a way to marry him,” she continued, her voice shaking. “Beg if you have to, get pregnant—whatever it takes! Because if you don’t, don’t even think about coming back here!”
The stick finally dropped to the ground.
My mother finally stopped her rampage, but not out of guilt or pity. Instead, she blocked the doorway, glaring at me like I was the worst mistake she’d ever made. She didn’t even let me inside the house. Instead, she started tossing my belongings out onto the muddy ground, one by one.
“Get out right now!” she screamed, her voice loud. “Even if you die, you better go die at Modred house!”
Her words hit me hard, but not as hard as the small wooden trophy she threw next. It struck my forehead, and I felt a sharp sting. Blood mixed with the rain, trailing down my cheek in thin, cold streams. I reached up instinctively, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t care, and neither did anyone walking by.
I bent down, ignoring the pain, and started rummaging through the scattered pile of my belongings. Old books, faded photos, and childhood trinkets lay soaked and ruined in the mud. My hands shook as I tried to salvage what little I could, though I wasn’t even sure why. The past I was clinging to had never been kind to me.
Then, out of nowhere, a sleek Bentley pulled up to the curb. Its tires splashed water as it stopped, and for a brief moment, the world seemed quieter, like everything had paused. Modred stepped out of the car, holding an umbrella in one hand, his expression a mix of irritation and smugness.
He walked straight toward me without hesitation. “Freya,” he said sharply, grabbing my arm before I could protest. “Get up.”
I didn’t move, so he yanked me to my feet with more force. The umbrella barely covered us as he dragged me toward the car. His grip was firm, unyielding, and I didn’t have the strength to fight back.
“Freya, have you learned your lesson yet?” he asked, his tone condescending. “You see how the world treats you? No one will ever love you except me. Be a good girl and come home.”
I didn’t respond. I just let him push me into the car. The leather seat was cold against my wet clothes. Modred sat beside me and threw his coat over my shoulders like he was doing me a favor. But the moment the coat touched me, I caught the unmistakable scent of Diana’s perfume. It clung to the fabric, strong and deliberate, like it was meant to remind me of my place.
Modred leaned back in his seat, still talking. “Apologize properly to Diana,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Do that, and you’ll still be the future Mrs. Wyatt.”
I stared out the window, watching the rain blur the scenery as the car started moving. The numbness inside me grew. Once, I had believed Modred was my salvation. I had shared my darkest thoughts and deepest pains with him, thinking he understood me. But now I saw the truth. He had used my vulnerabilities against me, twisting them into chains to keep me under his control. He was never my refuge, and he wasn’t worthy of my love.
While I was lost in thought, Modred’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen before answering, his voice dropping into a softer, almost sweet tone.
“Modred, why aren’t you here yet?” A woman’s voice came through the speaker. It was light, teasing, and unmistakably Diana’s. “Everyone’s waiting for you,” she continued. “They’re all teasing me, saying how the company retreat can’t just have the boss’s wife attending while the boss himself is nowhere to be found. I’m running out of ways to respond…”
Modred shot me an awkward glance, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he seemed caught, unsure whether to leave me behind or drag me along. But he must’ve decided it wouldn’t look right if he left me there.
He cleared his throat. “Freya,” he said, forcing a smile. “Why don’t you come along to the company retreat?”
I almost laughed. Modred had never let me set foot in his company before. Even when I brought him meals, I had to hand them to his assistant outside the building. He always said it was to avoid distractions, but I knew better. I wasn’t good enough to be seen by other pack members.
Now, out of nowhere, he was offering me this—an invitation to his precious company retreat. It wasn’t a gift. It was a performance, a way to save face.
The blood from my forehead had dried a little, leaving a sticky feeling on my skin. I pulled out a tissue from my bag and wiped at it slowly.
“Okay,” I said finally, my voice calm and flat. This was an unprecedented ‘gift’ from him, after all.
