Freya’s Honeymoon of Lies

Freya had imagined married life as a golden new chapter, shimmering with promise.
So when George, her new husband, urged her to settle into his ancestral home before their honeymoon, she agreed eagerly, picturing ivy-covered walls and a future built together.

The estate was breathtaking, almost like a storybook palace—arched doorways, high ceilings, water features murmuring in sunlit courtyards, and gardens spilling color everywhere. It should have felt like a dream.

But from the moment she arrived, Valerie—the long‑time house servant—watched her with cool, measuring eyes. There was no warmth in her tone, only a clipped efficiency.

“This place isn’t for you,” her gaze seemed to whisper, though she never spoke the words aloud. Freya ignored it, determined to make the manor her home.

A few days later, eager to win over the family, she woke early to cook a lavish breakfast for George’s younger siblings. Valerie lingered in the kitchen, wiping counters, her presence oddly heavy.

When Freya reached for her phone to check a recipe, it was gone.

“Have you seen my phone?” she asked.

Valerie shook her head without meeting her eyes.
“If I were you, I’d hurry. They expect breakfast before they come down,” she said flatly, and slipped out of the kitchen.

Minutes later, Freya found her phone on the chair Valerie had occupied. The screen was awake with a new text:

Your husband keeps secrets in his drawer. Check the top left compartment. Then LEAVE.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she climbed the stairs. The bedroom felt suddenly foreign, the bed neatly made, the clothes folded with care—Valerie’s touch evident everywhere.

Freya’s hand trembled on the drawer handle. Inside lay a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon, and a small brass key. She sat on the bed and unfolded each letter one by one.

They were love letters. Written by George.
Not to her.

Every page dripped with longing for someone named Elena.
Dreams they shared. Promises he whispered. Plans he made.
And then the final letter—dated three days before his proposal to Freya—said goodbye.

Freya stared at the little key. What did it unlock?
She sought out George’s younger sister.

“Oh, that’s for the attic,” Ivy said, frowning as she turned the key over in her palm. “George loved that room. I never understood why. It always gave me chills.”

Every wall was covered in photographs. George and a woman—Elena—smiling, dancing, kissing. The tenderness in their eyes made Freya feel like an intruder in her own marriage. Beneath one photo, taped carefully, was an ultrasound image.

A baby.
Their baby.

Freya staggered back, staring, her throat tight. He had kept all of this hidden—Elena, the child, the life he’d lived before her.

“Freya?” A soft voice drifted from the doorway.

It was Valerie.

“You shouldn’t have learned like this,” she murmured.

“You knew?” Freya asked, the words sharp with disbelief.

Valerie nodded, tears glinting in her eyes.
“Elena is my sister. She wanted you to know the truth. Those letters? She gave them to me. I placed them in his drawer this morning.”

“And the baby?” Freya whispered.

Valerie’s voice broke as she told the story. Elena had helped with the Christmas party two years ago. She and George had fallen in love. He promised to fight for her, to prove to his wealthy family that she was more than a servant.

But when Elena told him she was pregnant—and that the child would be born with Down syndrome—his promises turned to dust. He abandoned her without warning.

Freya felt sick. This wasn’t just betrayal. It was cruelty.

She marched into the living room where George’s family gathered, Valerie at her side. She laid out the letters and the attic photos. Valerie spoke of Elena and the unborn child. The air thickened with shock.

George arrived mid‑revelation, his face ashen.
“Is this true?” his father demanded.

George said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

His parents’ response was swift and furious. They cut him off financially, redirecting his inheritance to support Elena and her child.

As for Freya, she filed for divorce. George didn’t contest it—he was too busy drowning in his own ruin.

But Freya refused to crumble. With part of the inheritance gifted to her as a gesture of apology, she built something lasting—a foundation for children with disabilities. Valerie joined her, and even George’s mother offered her support, severing ties with her son forever.

Love is not just vows whispered in ceremony—it’s the choices we make when faced with truth.