The dormant guilt rises and engulfs me. “It was a mistake.” She can’t have missed the moment I lost my baggage and threw them out. I was a mess. She’s being very selective with her memories. “Freja, what happened on—”

“There’s word that you’re seeing someone.”

I bolt back in my chair like I’ve been shot, my eyes regarding her warily. That felt like a backward threat. What’s the word, and who the fuck has been speaking? I’m struck dumb, unable to unravel my tangled thoughts.

“Does that mean you’re off the market?”

“I was never on the market, Freja.”

“But available, yes?”

“You mean to fuck?” I ask, keeping it factual, pushing myself farther back in my chair. “Available to fuck.”

“And now you’re not.” She smiles, and I one hundred percent hate it. Fucking hell, this isn’t good.

“How’s the divorce going?” I ask.

“We’re locking horns.”

“Over what?” Please say money.

“Over blame.”

I glance away, not liking the satisfied glint in her eyes. I’m not being intuitive. I’m being real. Freya told me her husband didn’t know she’d been in my bed. Now she has again, has that changed? “Have you told your husband about what happened last week?” I ask, getting fucked off with dancing around her need to stretch this out. I need to know what I’m dealing with.

“No,” she says, and my eyes shoot to hers, surprised. I don’t know why I’m feeling so relieved. I can see there’s a catch coming. “But I’m curious. Why are you so worried about my husband finding out, Jesse?”

I close my eyes on an inhale. “Like I said before, I don’t want my manor being dragged into your mud-slinging match in court.” I can’t tell her about Ava and give her the ammunition she’s looking for. Of all the people who shouldn’t know about Ava, it’s Freja. I can’t risk her telling Mikael. Because if he finds out Freja has been in my bed, he’ll take the sickest pleasure in trying to exact his revenge. He’s already got his eye on Ava, without me in the equation, that was obvious at the Lusso launch.

“Really?” she asks, and I ball my fists, feeling the pressure building.

“Freja, I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

She gets up and rounds my desk, unraveling the belt of her trench coat as she does. I’m out of my chair like a rocket, averting my stare before I get an eyeful of what’s beneath, or, more to the point, what’s not beneath. Namely, clothes. “Don’t make me spell it out, Jesse.”

“Cover yourself up, Freja,” I warn. What the fuck is wrong with her? I threw her out of this office mere days ago. Why would she even consider coming—?