𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

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Freya never had a perfect life

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Freya never had a perfect life. No one did on the Ark. Perfection wasn't possible—not in a place built on survival, where weakness was punished, and love often came with consequences.

She learned that the hard way.

Her mother was floated when she was just a little girl. One moment, she was there, tucking Freya into bed, whispering promises that everything would be okay. The next, she was gone—her body ejected into the endless abyss of space, a silent punishment for a crime Freya barely understood.

Her father? He was never in the picture. Just a name whispered in passing, nothing more than a rumor carried on hushed voices.

But Freya had people who made the Ark bearable—Jasper, Monty, Octavia, Raven, Finn, Murphy. They weren't just friends. They were family.

And then there was Bellamy.

He wasn't just her boyfriend. He was everything.

That's why today—the day he showed up at her door in his brand-new guard uniform—everything came crashing down.

She hadn't been okay all day.

The anxiety had started as a dull ache in her chest, something she could shove down, ignore. But as the hours passed, it grew, twisting tighter and tighter until she could barely breathe.

And then the knock came.

Freya opened the door, and there he was—Bellamy, standing tall, his face full of excitement, pride.

"I did it," he said, a small grin on his lips. "I got promoted."

She should've been happy for him. She wanted to be. But all she could see was the uniform. The badge. The authority it came with.

Because Bellamy knew her secret.

He knew about Ava—her little sister, the one she'd raised, the one who wasn't registered under her name. The one who, by all rights, shouldn't exist.

And yet, he had never reported her.

Because Bellamy loved her. Because he loved Ava. Because he would never—never—turn them in.

But what if he had to?

What if this job changed him? What if one wrong move put them all in danger?

The anxiety exploded.

Freya couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The walls were closing in, the air too thick, the fear too loud. She had to get out, had to escape.

The next thing she knew, she was in the bathtub, fully clothed, water lapping against her face. But she couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything.

The edges of her vision blurred.

Then—strong hands. Pulling her up. Holding her.

"Freya!"

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, BELLAMY BLAKEWhere stories live. Discover now