Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Ingrid
I wake up alone, but this time it's different.
This time there's a note on the pillow beside me, written in Gunnar's messy handwriting on the back of a receipt:
Kirkja at 8. Didn't want to wake you. Stay as long as you want. Text me when you're up.
- G
I stare at the note, something warm unfurling in my chest.
He left a note.
Such a small thing.
But after years of men who couldn't be bothered to say goodbye, who treated me like I was disposable, a note feels like everything.
I check my phone—9:43 AM.
Three texts from Gunnar:
Morning, sweet girl.
Kirkja is running long. Lots to discuss.
Miss you.
Miss you.
Two words that shouldn't make my eyes sting but do.
I text back:
Just woke up. Miss you too.
Then I force myself out of bed, gathering my clothes from where they're scattered around his room.
The walk through the clubhouse should be embarrassing—doing the walk of shame in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess, everyone knowing exactly where I spent the night.
But the few people I pass just nod or smile.
A prospect at the kitchen counter grins. "Morning, Ingrid."
"Morning."
No judgment.
No knowing looks.
Just... normalcy.
Like me spending the night in Gunnar's room is the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I'm the only one who's been making this complicated.
Outside, the morning sun is already brutal—typical Florida, humid and bright, even if it is January.
My car is still parked from yesterday when I came to make dinner.
I climb in and head toward the house I share with Trisha and Angela.
The rental is in a decent neighborhood—three bedrooms, small yard, the kind of place that looks fine from the outside but is complete chaos inside.
Trisha's parents own it, rent it to her cheap, and she sublets the other two rooms.
I've been there for a year and a half.
It was supposed to be temporary.
But temporary became permanent became the place I'm too stuck to leave.
I park in the driveway behind Angela's beat-up Honda.
Both of them are home.
Great.
Inside, the house smells like vanilla candles trying to cover up stale alcohol and last night's takeout.
The living room is exactly as messy as I expected—throw pillows on the floor, empty wine bottles on the coffee table, someone's shoes kicked off by the couch.
Trisha and Angela are in the kitchen, both in pajamas, both with mimosas despite it being 11 AM on a Sunday.
"Well, well," Trisha says when she sees me. "Look who finally decided to come home."
"Hey." I head for the fridge, grab a water.
"Hey?" Angela's eyebrows shoot up. "That's all we get? You disappear Friday night from the bar, don't answer texts all weekend, and that's all we get?"
"I've been busy."
"Busy doing what?" Trisha leans against the counter, mimosa in hand. "Or should I say busy doing who?"
I should've known this was coming.
Should've prepared better.
"I'm seeing someone," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
They exchange looks.
"Seeing someone," Angela repeats. "As in dating? You?"
The way she says it—like the concept of me in an actual relationship is absurd—makes something in my chest tighten.
"Yes. Me."
"Who?" Trisha demands.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. We're your friends. We want details." She grins, but there's an edge to it. "Is he hot? Rich? Good in bed?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Oh come on," Angela whines. "You never want to talk about anything anymore. You're so boring now."
"I'm not boring. I'm just—"
"What? Too good for us?" Trisha's smile has vanished. "Because you've been acting like it lately. Always busy with work, never wanting to go out, and now you're seeing someone and won't even tell us who."
"It's new. I'm being careful."
"Careful," Trisha scoffs. "Right. Because you were so careful with Bjorn. And Njal after him."
The names land like slaps.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Angela tops off her mimosa. "Come on, Ingrid. We all know how this goes. You meet some club guy, think he's different, sleep with him too fast, and then act surprised when he moves on. It's like clockwork."
My hands tighten around the water bottle. "This is different."
"That's what you always say."
"Because this time it is."
"Why?" Trisha challenges. "What makes this one so special?"
Because he sees me.
Because he's been patient and kind and present for years.
Because he told me he loves me and I'm starting to believe him.
But I can't say any of that.
Not to them.
Not to women who've never understood that sometimes the walls I put up aren't attitude—they're survival.
"He just is," I say instead.
Angela rolls her eyes. "God, you sound pathetic. Let me guess—he’s part of your daddy’s club?"
I don't answer.
Don't need to.
My silence is confirmation enough.
"Of course he is," Trisha mutters. "Because that worked out so well the last two times."
"Gunnar's not like them."
The name slips out before I can stop it.
Both of them freeze.
"Gunnar?" Angela's eyes go wide. "As in Gunnar, Gunnar? Vail and Vanir's son? The one who swooped in and took you the other night?"
Shit.
"You're fucking Gunnar?" Trisha's voice rises. "Are you serious right now?"
"We're not—it's not just—"
"Oh my god." Angela starts laughing. "This is perfect. You're screwing your childhood friend. Does he know you're a mess? Does he know about all the other club guys?"
"He knows everything about me."
"And he still wants you?" Trisha's skepticism is written all over her face. "Come on, Ingrid. You really think this is going to last? You really think Gunnar's going to want to keep you around once the novelty wears off?"
The words hit like she’s slapped me in the face.
"That's not—"
"It is," Angela interrupts. "Look, we love you, but let's be real. You have a type—club guys who make you feel special for like five minutes before they remember you're just another girl. Gunnar's probably the same."
"He's not."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?" Trisha demands. "Because he said so? Because he was sweet for a weekend? Please. Remember when you thought Bjorn was different too? Remember how you told us he was the one?"
I remember.
God, I remember.
"Gunnar's not Bjorn," I say, but my voice wavers.
"Right. He's just another club guy who'll fuck you until something better comes along." Angela's tone is almost pitiful. "We're just trying to protect you, babe. We've seen this pattern. You fall hard, you get hurt, you come crying to us. And we're tired of watching you do this to yourself."
"So what?" My voice rises. "You want me to stay alone forever? Never try again because I've been hurt before?"
"We want you to be realistic," Trisha says. "You're Fenrir's daughter. The VP's baby girl. Club guys are either too intimidated by that or they see you as a conquest. Either way, it never works out."
"Maybe because I kept choosing the wrong ones."
"And you think Gunnar's different? He's been watching you spiral for how long now? If he really cared, he would've made a move years ago."
The comment is meant to hurt.
And it does.
Because she's not entirely wrong—Gunnar did wait.
Did watch me fall apart and put myself back together over and over.
But he also showed up every single time I needed him.
Never judged.
Never left.
Just... stayed.
"You know what?" I set down my water bottle. "You're right. He did wait. He waited because he actually gives a shit about me. Because he wanted to make sure I was ready. Because he's not like every other asshole who just saw an easy target."
"Or," Angela says slowly, "he waited because he's playing the long game. Make you think he's different, make you fall for him, then break your heart worse than anyone else could."
The words are poison.
Designed to make me doubt.
To make me run.
And the worst part?
They're working.
"I'm not doing this." I head toward the hallway, toward my room.
"Where are you going?" Trisha calls.
"Out."
"Of course you are. Run away. That's what you do."
I stop, turn back. "You know what? Maybe I do run.
But at least I'm trying. At least I'm willing to risk getting hurt if it means finding something real.
What are you two doing? Sitting around drinking at eleven AM, talking shit about everyone, waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen? "
Silence.
Both of them stare at me.
"We're not the ones with the problem," Trisha says finally. "You are. You've always been the problem, Ingrid. Too damaged, too needy, too much work. And eventually, Gunnar's going to realize that too."
The words should devastate me.
Should send me spiraling into self-hatred and doubt.
But instead, they clarify everything.
These aren't my friends.
They never were.
They're just people I settled for because I didn't think I deserved better.
"I'm moving out," I hear myself say.
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm moving out. I'll be gone by the end of the month."
"Over some guy?" Angela scoffs. "That's pathetic."
"No. Over the fact that I finally realized I deserve better than this." I gesture around the messy kitchen, the judgmental stares. "Better than drinking at eleven AM and tearing each other down. Better than friends who only stick around to watch me fail."
"If you leave—" Trisha starts.
"Then I leave. And you find another roommate. Shouldn't be hard—you've got a whole rotation of girls who want to hang out with you."
I don't wait for a response.
Just head to my room, grab my purse and phone, and walk out.
The door closes behind me with a satisfying click.
My hands are shaking as I get back in my car.
Adrenaline and anger and something that might be freedom all mixing together.
I need to talk to someone.
Someone who understands.
I pull out my phone, scroll through contacts, and call my sister.
Astrid answers on the second ring.
"Hey, kiddo. What's up?"
"Are you home? Can I come over?"
A pause. "Of course. Are you okay?"
"Not really. I just—I need to talk."
"Come now. I'll make tea. Or pour wine. Both?"