Chapter 20 #2
Bootsteps. Then the soft click of him setting his keys in the bowl, the sound I’ve heard so many times, but tonight, it punches straight through my chest.
“Freya?” His voice carries in from the doorway, searching for me. “You home?”
He steps into the living room and stops dead. His eyes adjust to the dark, find me on the sofa, still and waiting. Concern sweeps across his face like a shadow passing over sunlight. “Hey.”
He clicks on the lamp beside him, light spilling over his face and catching me off guard in a way I refuse to examine.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
That question hits the detonator.
“The dark? Why am I sitting in the dark, you ask? I don’t know, Anton… Why don’t you tell me why I’m sitting in the dark?” I stand slowly.
Instantly, his features shift. His nostrils flare at the sight of me.
“Did you send the bodycam image to GhostEye?” My voice wants to shake, but I steady it.
Anton plants his feet like something’s about to hit him hard. Which answers my question.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why did you go behind my back?”
He drags a hand across his jaw, tension flickering in his eyes. “It was wrong, but my thought was just to…”
“…Help me?” I spit out the word like it burns. “Is that it? Take over because poor little Freya can’t follow her own damn leads?”
His brow knots. “That’s not what happened. And that’s not how I think…”
“Oh? Then explain it to me.” I work hard to contain the ache of betrayal. He promised me I was the lead here, and he took over. “Explain why Rio knew and I didn’t. Why probably everyone in the ranch office knew, but not me, the one running the case.”
He steps closer. Carefully.
“Listen, these are our friends. I wanted them to look first before giving you another task to manage if it was nothing.”
I interrupt him with a humorless laugh. “Wow. Incredible. You decided I couldn’t handle the work?”
“I didn’t want to waste your time. I was trying to protect you from the stress.”
“Well, congratulations,” I snap. “You did the exact opposite.”
The ache in my chest flares hotter. I finally earn a career that’s worth a damn, and he thinks I can’t handle the stress.
Yes, it’s not easy being pregnant and losing sleep over a case. But I. Can. Handle. It.
“You should’ve told me,” I press down so my voice doesn’t rise. “I’m not incompetent. I’m not some wide-eyed girl asking questions in the passenger seat anymore.”
“I never said you were.”
“You didn’t have to,” I choke out. “You acted like it.”
And God, the worst part is how familiar it feels—that subtle, silent vote of no confidence. The same one I’ve been outrunning since I was a kid. The same one so many women who look like me have to fight time and time again.
I breathe deeply. I know this isn’t the same. I know the intention wasn’t to belittle, but I’m triggered, and the adrenaline won’t stop racing.
He takes a step toward me, arms open as if he’s going to gather me in them. “Freya, I swear to God, that’s not how I see you. It’s not even close.”
“Don’t.” I raise my finger in the air. I try to close the drawbridge, but when our gazes meet, his blue eyes are filled with sincerity. “Don’t even give me a compliment… I’m sick of how good it feels, and you don’t even mean…”
My throat tightens so fast, it physically hurts.
“I mean everything I say to you.” His voice is so low, I can hardly hear it. “Every damn thing. And I should have run the idea by you. That’s on me. That’s my screw-up.” His voice is rough. “Nobody thinks you’re anything but capable.”
The words should soothe. They should land like a balm. But instead, they hit the one place inside me that’s already cracked.
Because being capable is the thing I never stop fighting to prove.
His words hit the exact bruise I spend my life pretending isn’t there, revealing the softer, uglier truth underneath—the exhaustion, the fear, the ache I’ve kept welded shut since the day I put on this badge. Hell, every day of my goddamn life.
The anger holding me upright wavers.
I want people to think I’m good enough. Shit…do I even think I’m good enough?
My chest tightens. Before I can swallow them back, tears surge up. Hot. Humiliating. Unstoppable. The thin, frayed thread I’ve been hanging onto all day drops instantly.
I cover my face with my hands as if I might cage the emotion where it belongs.
But it’s too late. The dam has broken. Everything I’ve been holding back—the pressure from society, from my mother, even the new, unexpected fear of imposter syndrome contaminating motherhood—spills out in a rush I can’t contain.
“I’m just…” I choke, the words scraping like broken glass. “I’m so damn tired, Anton.” My voice fractures. “I’m tired of always having to prove myself.” The confession feels like ripping open my own rib cage. “I’m tired of trying so hard just to feel like I belong in the room.”
His expression shifts into pain, almost a mirror to my own soul. I know he’s sorry. I know people make mistakes, but this hit me deep.
“And then you…” I choke, shaking my head. “You take that lead and hand it off without me, and it feels like you’re saying I’m still not trying hard enough. Like I’m still not doing enough. Like I have to run twice as fast just to catch up to where everyone else starts.”
The tears spill over. I hate them. I’ve fought my whole life not to cry in front of anyone—especially a man. My mom would be standing here, stoic as a statue, telling him to get the hell out of his own house for stealing her power.
But that’s not what I want. And it’s not what he intended. I know that. I’m tired and stressed, and in many ways, it was a considerate thing to do.
I don’t want to be without him. I don’t want to go it alone. But I want to be…enough.
“Do you know what that feels like?” I whisper. “To give every piece of yourself…and still feel like you’re coming up short?”
His body stills in a way I’ve never seen it. I think back to what happened with his wife and best friend and…
Anton’s thick eyebrows pull together.
…He knows what it feels like.
But he doesn’t say anything about that. He just moves toward me in one swift movement and gathers me into his arms.
“Honey, you were born worthy.” There’s something desperate in his whisper. “God…I didn’t do it because you’re not enough. I did it because I hate seeing you carry all that weight alone. You don’t have to do that anymore. I’m here now. You have all of me to lean on. I got you…”
That only makes the tears flow harder. I’m raw with vulnerability, with this gorgeous man supporting me, with a dead girl begging for justice, with the baby on the way who needs me… It’s too much.
He steps in fully now, cupping my face in his palms, thumbs brushing my wet cheeks in the softest strokes imaginable. “But this isn’t about just the lead. I get that. I see you.”
His words still me. He sees me. And he’s still holding me. Somehow, despite all this, his arms feel like the safest place to let my guard down.
Something shifts. In the mess of tears and anger and everything I’ve been carrying for too damn long, a new truth curls warm in my chest.
I don’t want to do this alone anymore.
I don’t want to always be the strong one.
I don’t want to keep proving myself to the world when all I’ve ever wanted was to be seen—not the polished version I keep trying to measure up to, not the woman clawing her way toward impressive, but just…me.
Ordinary where I’m ordinary.
Flawed where I’m flawed.
I want to be exactly who I am and have that be enough. And somewhere along the way, trying to earn my place in the world, I forgot that I’m allowed to simply exist.
I lift my eyes to his, and the steel in his gaze knocks the breath from my lungs.
There’s no pity there. Just steady, unflinching devotion.