Chapter 61: The main problem
The return to the Kazarov estate was a blur of hurried footfalls and hushed instructions. The quiet calm that usually held the house was completely shattered the moment the front doors were thrown open.
Aaron carried Freya through the grand foyer, his arms locked tight around her as he took the stairs two at a time. Medical staff who lived on the grounds, already alerted by Pyotr on the drive over, were waiting near the upper landing with a rolling gurney and diagnostic kits.
Down in the main hall, Pyotr kept a firm, gentle hand on Isabella’s arm, guiding her away from the commotion. Guards moved briskly around them, pulling curtains shut against the evening draft, carrying up ice packs, and fetching warm towels.
"Is she alright?" Isabella asked, her head turned toward the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Her voice was small, swallowed by the sudden rush of activity.
"They’re taking her to her room now, ma’am," Pyotr said softly, keeping his pace slow so she wouldn’t trip over her own feet. "The doctor is already inside. The boss is right there with her."
Isabella swallowed, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her coat. She could hear the distinct sound of Finn running up the wooden stairs behind them, his sneakers squeaking against the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Is she okay? Is her leg broken?" Finn’s voice bounced off the high walls, raw with fear.
"She’s fine, Finn, just let the doctors work," Pyotr called out, though the boy barely listened, rushing straight past them toward the upper floor.
Isabella allowed herself to be led toward the wing where her guest room sat. She could hear the entire house shifting, every servant and guard moving faster, every door swinging open to serve one purpose: making sure Freya was safe.
She understood it. Freya was deeply cared for here. Hearing how Aaron had practically leaped off the bleachers, how Finn had looked ready to cry, and how the entire household jumped at a single command, it was obvious how much love surrounded the girl.
What Isabella didn’t understand was why Freya held so much hostility, or why she had spat those sharp words at her the day she arrived.
Isabella pushed the thought down. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on her own bruised feelings. Freya was hurting, and that was all that mattered right now.
"Pyotr," Isabella said softly as they reached the entrance to her hallway. "Please make sure she gets everything she needs. Tell Aaron not to worry about me."
"I will, Miss Isabella," Pyotr replied warmly. "A maid will bring up a light dinner for you shortly. Rest up."
Upstairs, Freya’s bedroom was filled with quiet tension.
The estate doctor was kneeling beside the plush bed, gently unwrapping the beige elastic bandage from Freya’s left foot. Freya lay back against a heap of pillows, her face pale, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Finn stood at the foot of the bed, pacing back and forth, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "Does it hurt? Does it feel like a break? Did you hear a snap?"
"Finn, stop talking," Freya muttered, though there was no real power behind her voice.
"I’m just asking! You fell hard!" Finn looked at the doctor with wide, anxious eyes. "Doc, tell me she’s not going to lose a foot."
The doctor let out a short, tired breath. "She has a mild sprain, young man. No broken bones. She needs ice, elevation, and a few days of rest."
Standing near the side of the bed, Aaron watched every movement of the doctor’s hands. His suit was off, thrown carelessly over a chair, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
His broad chest rose and fell in heavy, deliberate breaths, the sharp edge of panic only now beginning to bleed out of his frame.
"Are you sure she doesn’t need an X-ray at the hospital?" Aaron asked, his tone deep and tight.
"I’ve already taken portable scans, sir," the doctor reassured him, applying a cold gel to Freya’s swollen ankle. "It’s just a strain. She’ll be fine in a week if she stays off it."
Finn let out a huge breath, tossing his head back. "Thank God. I thought I was gonna have to carry you everywhere."
Aaron turned his head slightly toward his boy. "Finn. Go downstairs and get some food. You’ve been bouncing off the walls since we got back."
"I wanna stay," Finn protested, looking at Freya.
"Go," Aaron said, his voice soft but firm. "She needs to rest. I’ll be down in a bit."
Finn lingered for a second, looking between Aaron and Freya, before sighing and nodding.
He walked over, gave Freya’s shoulder a quick, awkward squeeze, and mumbled, "Don’t die," before slipping out the door.
Once the doctor finished wrapping the ankle and stepped out to gather medications, the room grew thick with quiet.
Aaron moved closer, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He reached out, his large, warm hand covering Freya’s cold knee over the blanket. "How does it feel?"
"It aches," Freya whispered, watching his face. "A lot."
"You were reckless out there," Aaron murmured, though his thumb stroked gently over the fabric on her leg. "Chasing a ball like that near the edge of the court."
Freya looked down at her lap, her long lashes shadowing her cheekbones. She felt a small, secret wave of satisfaction warmth through her chest.
It had worked. He was here. He had carried her. He had dropped everything the second she cried out. He hadn’t thought about anything else.
"I wanted to win," she murmured softly, leaning her head back against the headboard. "I wanted you to see me win."
"I see you," Aaron said, his voice deep and rough. "You don’t need to hurt yourself to get me to look."
Freya looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. She felt a swell of triumph. Isabella wasn’t here.
Isabella was off in some dark room somewhere, while she had Aaron’s full, undivided attention.
Aaron checked his watch, then leaned over to pull the heavy duvet up to her chin. He reached out to adjust the lamp on her nightstand, turning the bright bulb down to a soft, warm glow.
He checked the glass of water sitting nearby, making sure it was full, and placed the small call button right beside her hand.
"Get some sleep," Aaron said, starting to push himself up from the bed. "The medicine will kick in soon."
Freya’s hand shot out from under the blanket, her fingers snatching the edge of his shirt sleeve. "Where are you going?"
Aaron paused, looking down at her small hand gripping his cuff. "I’m going to let you sleep."
"Stay," she demanded, her voice rising slightly, slipping into a whiny tone. "Mishka, my leg really hurts. What if I need something? What if the ice melts?"
"The staff is right outside your door," Aaron said smoothly, his eyes steady on hers. "And Finn is just down the hall."
"I don’t want Finn, and I don’t want the staff!" Freya argued, her grip tightening on his shirt. She tried to throw in a bit of guilt, looking up at him with watery eyes.
"I just got hurt! I could have broken my leg today, and you can’t even stay with me for one night? Don’t you care about me at all?"
Aaron didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry, nor did he fall for the moisture in her eyes. He simply reached down with his free hand and gently, firmly unclasped her small fingers from his sleeve, holding her wrist softly in his palm before placing her hand back on the bed.
"I’ve been by your side for the last three hours, Freya," Aaron said, his tone low, quiet, and completely unyielding. "I carried you off the field. I stayed while the doctor checked you. I am here now."
Freya’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger crossing her features. "You just want to go see ’her’."
The atmosphere in the room instantly dropped several degrees.
Aaron didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even frown. He just looked at her, his dark eyes heavy and intense, carrying a weight that made Freya’s throat instantly go dry.
"You are going to close your eyes, and you are going to go to sleep," Aaron said, every word smooth and heavy like iron. "We will talk about your behavior tomorrow."
Freya bit her lower lip, shrinking back into her pillows. She realized, with a sudden cold splash of reality, that she had pushed too far.
He cared for her, he had proven that today, but she couldn’t pull his strings the way she thought she could.
Without another word, Aaron turned and walked toward the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back at her one last time in the dim light.
"Goodnight, Freya."
He pulled the door shut, the quiet click of the latch echoing in the hallway.
Freya stared at the closed door, her small hands pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Anger burned hot behind her eyes. Her plan had worked, she had gotten him away from that woman for hours but it hadn’t changed the main problem. He was still thinking about Isabella. He was still going to her.
Down the long, carpeted hall, the house was silent.
Aaron walked slowly, his heavy steps making no sound against the thick runner. As much as his mind had been focused on Freya’s ankle and her safety over the past several hours, a small, persistent heat had been burning in the back of his chest.
Isabella.
He had left her sitting alone in the middle of a loud, crowded stadium. He knew Pyotr had brought her back safely, knew his guards were stationed outside her room, knew she had been fed and cared for, but he hadn’t seen her with his own eyes since he jumped over that railing.
He stopped outside her door. He reached out, his hand hovering over the dark wood.
Inside the dimly lit room, Isabella was sitting on the wide cushion of the window sill.
The night was dark outside, the rain washing down the glass in long, wavy streaks. She couldn’t see the water, but she could hear the rhythmic ’patter-patter’ against the pane, a steady, soothing noise that filled the quiet space.
Her hand rested lightly over her flat stomach.
A baby.
Kian’s baby.
The thought felt surreal, like a strange story someone had told her about a person she used to know. For weeks, she had wanted nothing more than to break free from Kian, to scrub his presence from her life completely.
And now, just as she was standing on the edge of freedom, her own body had anchored her back to him.
What was she supposed to do? Keep it? Raise a child tied to a man who treated her like a trophy to be kept in a dark drawer? Or end it, and carry that choice with her for the rest of her life?
A soft, clear knock echoed through the wood of the door.