Freya's POV
I stared at the handwritten note, my hands trembling slightly. The elegant script was unmistakably his - I had seen Mack Ben sign documents with that same precise penmanship when we discussed the three billion dollar loan.
My mind reeled with disbelief.
How did Mack Ben find me last night? Why did he bring me home? When did he slip away? And those fragmented memories floating through my consciousness - the warmth of being held, gentle touches, even what felt like a kiss on my forehead. Were they real or just alcohol-induced fantasies?
The most shocking part was imagining someone of his status standing in my tiny kitchen, preparing hangover remedies like some kind of devoted boyfriend.
I stumbled toward the kitchen, still processing everything. The rice cooker sat in warm mode, exactly as his note promised. Inside was perfectly cooked white porridge. On the stovetop, my usual soup pot contained what must be the sobering tea he mentioned.
