reya burst through the classroom door with such force that everyone inside was startled.
Luna couldn’t help but shout a “Holy cow!” in sheer astonishment.
All eyes in the room instantly turned to Freya, including Ronan’s. Dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up, Ronan stood out with his tall, lean figure and striking features, accentuated by a pair of gold–rimmed glasses. His demeanor was cold and detached, a sharp contrast to the bustling classroom.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I’m late!” Freya announced, her voice booming across the room, filled with an unexpected confidence.
Her bold apology sent a ripple of suppressed laughter through the students. Who else could declare their being late with such audacity? “Sit,” Ronan stated tersely, his gaze shifting away from Freya as he continued the lesson, seemingly unfazed by the interruption. Meanwhile, Luna, peeking from the doorway, felt her soul nearly leave her body in shock. Since when had Freya become so bold? Gone
as the timid and gentle friend she knew, replaced by a figure of towering confidence.
Deciding she had no stomach for the elite’s bluster typically found in lectures, Luna discreetly slipped away.
Freya sat in the front row, her eyes locked on Ronan throughout the class. His occasional glances in her direction only seemed to strengthen her resolve.
As the class ended, Ronan glanced at his watch and announced, “Class dismissed,” in his usual unfazed manner. Seizing the moment, Freya dashed up to him with the urgency of a sprinter, catching the attention of her curious classmates.
Ronan merely glanced at her, “Yes?”
“I have a piece of land, starting bid at $300 million. My research shows it’s worth $5 billion, and I secured it for $4 billion. Did I make a profit or suffer a loss?”
Ronan’s expression tightened, a rare crack in his stoic facade.
“Follow me,” he said coldly, leading the way to a secluded lounge on the seventh floor. Once there, he swiftly pulled Freya inside, pinning her against the wall with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.
“Ms. Dawson, what’s this about?” he demanded, his gaze piercing.
Freya caught her breath. Despite their minimal interactions, she hadn’t anticipated Ronan’s awareness of her.
“Mr. Beckett, aren’t you going to answer my question first?”
“Did Kieran send you?” Ronan sneered. “Tell him I’ve set my sights on Echo City’s land.”
“It’s a trap laid out by Kieran, Mr. Beckett. I’m trying to help you,” Freya pressed on, undeterred by Ronan’s indifference.
Oh?” Ronan arched an eyebrow, “He’s ugly, undesirable, bad–tempered, and a loner. Ms. Dawson, your previous remarks about me haven’t been forgotten. And now, you want to help me? Who would believe that?”