Clarence’s POV
I should’ve known better.
All this time, I thought I had Freya figured out. That sharp tongue. That unbothered stare. The way she carried herself, like the world couldn’t touch her—it all read like arrogance to me. Proud. Fearless. Spoiled by something.
But I’d been wrong.
So damn wrong.
She wasn’t fearless. She was just used to holding herself together without anyone to lean on. And she wasn’t proud for the sake of ego—she was proud because it was the only armor she had left.
Now I knew. Knew what she’d endured. Knew the jobs she’d worked, the debt that nearly crushed her, the weight of losing her mother too young and too hard.
And still she stood.
Still, she wiped down my banister like it was no big deal. Still, she moved with practiced ease through my kitchen and hallways, as if scrubbing someone else’s life clean was second nature. Like she wasn’t quietly breaking under the weight of it all.