Freya's POV
I stepped out of the ballroom and the rain hit me like a slap.
Cold, relentless, soaking through the lace and satin in seconds. The gown clung to my skin, heavy as guilt, the veil plastered across my face like a wet shroud. I didn’t run. I walked. One foot in front of the other, heels sinking into the gravel, water pooling around my ankles.
Inside the ballroom they were still screaming, still crying, still filming.
But out here it was just me and the storm.
And the pain.
God, the pain.
It wasn’t the kind that made you scream. It was quieter and deeper. The kind that settled in your chest and made every breath feel like swallowing glass.
Ten years.
Ten years of believing he loved me.
Ten years of being the girl who stayed.
I thought about the nights I’d sat on his couch while he ranted about his dad, about how hard life was, about how no one understood him. I’d listened. I’d held him. I’d kissed his tears away when he cried about his mother’s death. I’d cooked for him when he was broke. I’d let him have me even when I was tired, even when it hurt, because I thought that was love.
I thought I was enough.
And he’d called me a rag doll.
Limp. Lifeless. Used up.
The words kept replaying, louder than the rain.
I wrapped my arms around myself, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.
Mom would have known.
Mom would have seen through him. She would have held me and told me I deserved better. She would have brushed my hair back and said, “You are not invisible, Freya. You are fire.”
But Mom was gone.
And Grandma—my sweet, bedridden Grandma—was all I had left. She’d be so proud of me today. She’d have clapped her thin hands and said, “That’s my girl. Don’t let them break you.”
Instead I was walking alone in the rain, wedding dress ruined, heart in pieces, while the two people who were supposed to love me most had laughed in my face.
I didn’t know where I was going.
I just kept walking.
The streetlights blurred through tears. Cars honked. Someone yelled something but I didn’t hear it.
My mind was loud.
Too loud.
He never loved me.
He used me.
Ten years… and I was just convenient.
The sobs came harder now. I couldn’t stop them. My chest hurt so much. My throat burned. I felt small. So small.
I stepped off the curb without looking.
Headlights flared. Tires screeched harshly against the asphalt.
I turned but it was too late. My eyes widened, when I saw a car speeding towards me.
The impact was sudden, a sharp pain in my hip, the world tilting, then nothing.
Jesus!
Black.
***
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I heard was rain drumming on metal.
Not the wild roar of the storm anymore—something softer, steady, and close.
The second thing was the smell: clean linen, faint cedar, warm skin.
My body ached, ribs throbbing, hip tender, but I was dry. Mostly. The wedding gown was still soaked, clinging coldly to my skin, but I was lying on something soft. A bed. Sheets. A blanket half-pulled over me.
I blinked.
The room was simple. Dark wood floors. Tall windows streaked with rain. A single lamp casting warm amber light. No hotel sterility. This felt… lived-in. Masculine.
Then I heard some footsteps. It was heavy and deliberate.
He stepped through the doorway and my breath caught.
Early forties, maybe. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like he used his body for more than sitting behind a desk. No shirt, just low-slung dark trousers that hung on narrow hips, exposing the deep V of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband. His abs were carved, defined ridges that shifted slightly with each breath. A light dusting of dark hair trailed from his chest down the center of his torso. Thick arms, veins standing out along his forearms. Wet black hair, tousled, like he’d been out in the rain too.
And God…He's dangerously handsome.
And that aura, dominant, controlled, like the room itself belonged to him.
He carried a thick white towel in one hand and a folded gray T-shirt in the other.
His eyes met mine, dark, steady, and unreadable.
“You’re awake.”
His voice was deep. Gravel-rough. The kind that vibrated low in your chest and settled somewhere primal between your thighs.
It rolled over me like thunder.
And despite everything, the betrayal still burning fresh, the ache in my ribs, the humiliation still stinging, my core clenched hard.
A sudden, shameful rush of heat flooded between my legs.
My pussy throbbed once, insistently, growing slick almost instantly.
I pressed my thighs together beneath the sodden gown, mortified.
What the hell is wrong with me?
How can I be thinking about this—about him—right now?
He was old enough to be my father.
And yet…
He didn’t seem to notice the chaos inside me.
Or if he did, he didn’t react.
“You almost got yourself killed,” he said, stepping closer. “I saw the car clip you, so I pulled over and carried you back here because my place was the closest dry spot.”
He held out the towel first.
“Dry off before you catch pneumonia.”
I sat up slowly, wincing. The movement made the wet fabric shift against my sensitive nipples, hardening them further. I took the towel with trembling fingers, clutching it to my chest like armor.
“Thank you,” I whispered. My voice cracked.
He nodded once, tossed the T-shirt onto the bed beside me.
“Bathroom’s through there. Change. I’ll get you something hot to drink.”
He turned to leave, muscles flexing across his back as he moved. I watched the play of his shoulders, the way his trousers rode low enough to show the dimples at the base of his spine.
Another pulse of wet heat surged through me.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.
“Wait,” I called too quickly, and too desperately.
He paused in the doorway, glancing back. One dark brow lifted.
I didn’t know what I wanted to say.
Don’t go.
Touch me.
Fuck me.
Make me forget.
Instead I just stared at him, cheeks burning, thighs slick beneath the ruined gown.
His gaze dropped slowly, and deliberately taking in the way the wet dress molded to my curves, the hard peaks of my nipples visible through the lace, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
Something flickered in his eyes.
It doesn't look like pity but Hunger.
“Change,” he repeated, voice even deeper now, edged with something dangerous. “We’ll talk after.”
Then he was gone leaving me alone with the pounding rain, the throbbing ache between my legs, and the terrifying realization that heartbreak hadn’t killed my desire.
It had only redirected it.
Straight toward the stranger who’d just saved my life.
I sat there for a long moment, towel clutched to my chest, heart hammering.
Then my eyes drifted to the nightstand.
A framed photo.
Three people.
A younger Dylan—maybe twenty—grinning wide.
His late mother, beautiful, and laughing.
And the man who’d just left the room, arms around them both, smiling like he belonged there.
My breath caught.
That was Dylan’s stepfather.
Ryder Hawthorne.
The man I’d just spent the night thinking filthy, shameful thoughts about.
I stared at the photo, at Ryder’s face, so much younger, but already carrying that same quiet dominance.
A thought slipped into my mind, sharp and reckless.
I got back at Helene tonight.
But Dylan?
He walked away thinking he won.
He called me a rag doll.
Maybe… maybe I should show him what a rag doll can do when she finally wakes up.
I looked toward the doorway where Ryder had disappeared.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
And for the first time since I walked in on them, I didn’t feel broken.
I felt dangerous.
I'm gonna seduce this man. Let him fuck me so when Dylan comes home and see me riding his step dad…
Oh my God. His expression will be such a satisfaction.