Chapter 8
The festive season was over.
The whirlwind of campaigns, client meetings, and endless strategizing had finally settled. Yet, as Becky stormed into her father’s office, she felt anything but relieved. The weight of everything—the fake relationship, the constant client’s scrutiny, and Freen’s name combined to hers—pressed down on her.
Inside, her father, Mr. Armstrong, and Freen’s father, Mr. Chankimha, were deep in an intense discussion, their voices filled with the same authority that had dictated so much of her life. As she barged in, both men turned toward her, brows raised at her sudden entrance.
"I'm breaking up with the whole idea of this so-called girlfriendship," Becky declared, arms crossed, frustration lacing her tone.
She barely had a moment to breathe before the office door swung open again.
"Yeah, me too," Freen’s voice rang out. "It’s enough now."
She stepped inside, just as exasperated, her expression mirroring Becky’s.
Mr. Armstrong sighed and stood, his sharp gaze flickering between the two.
"No way. Not now," he said firmly.
"He’s right," Mr. Chankimha chimed in, leaning against his desk. "Every client is beyond satisfied with your partnership. They’re convinced your personal equation brings some kind of magic into our campaigns. You two are practically walking, talking brand gold."
"So, no way you’re dropping this bomb right away," Mr. Armstrong added, his voice unwavering.
Freen scoffed, crossing her arms. "Do you guys rehearse these lines? Because that was weirdly in sync."
Becky clenched her fists. "I don’t care what clients think. My personal life isn’t a part of their damn marketing strategy! Nobody even—"
"We’re not asking you to be all love dovy," Mr. Chankimha interrupted smoothly. "No one cares what you two do behind closed doors. Just don’t declare anything publicly. Let things settle."
Becky exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers to her temples. "You don’t get it. This thing—this fake relationship—it affects me. It affects everything. And I am done pretending."
Mr. Armstrong’s expression softened. "I understand, my love." His tone was gentle, coaxing, the way only a father could be. "But can’t you just let it shake off naturally? Give it a month. Let the world forget. And then, you’ll be free."
Becky bit her lip.
She hated how easily he could break her resolve. How, despite everything, she could never say no to him when he spoke like that.
She huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out.
Freen remained still, watching Becky disappear down the hall. A deep sigh escaped her lips before she finally gave in and followed, dragging her feet back to her cabin.
One month.
What could possibly go wrong?
As Becky and Freen walked out of the office, frustration still evident in their stiff shoulders, Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Chankimha exchanged knowing glances. The storm wasn’t over yet and so they informed krik and kade that they have one month and in one month they all should be clear and give them the conclusion of the whole mission.
Later the food court buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos, but at their table, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Freen and Becky sat in silence, both absorbed in their meals, refusing to acknowledge each other’s presence.
Nam and Irin? They could feel the storm brewing.
Meanwhile, Kade and Kirk were on a mission.
Kade gulped, steeling herself, before bravely placing an extra piece of sushi on Freen’s plate.
Freen didn’t react. No glare. No protest. Just picked up her chopsticks and continued eating.
Someone across the table was silently watching.
Kirk smirked and took it up a notch. With a subtle gesture, he ordered a milk tea—but not for himself. For Becky.
A rare treat, considering their food court never kept it on the menu.
Freen noticed.
She saw how Kirk had been extra caring towards Becky lately. The way he hovered, the way he subtly leaned in, the way his smirk deepened when Becky accepted his gestures.
Freen exchanged glances with Nam.
Nam’s return look was clear: Don’t ask me, I don’t know either.
But Freen kept taking mental notes.
The tipping point came when Kade, feeling a little too bold, blew on a piece of hot salmon and directed her chopsticks toward Freen’s mouth.
“Eat it quickly while it’s hot,” Kade urged.
Even Freen looked surprised.
Normally, she would have glared, swatted Kade’s hand away, or rolled her eyes.
But today? She had zero energy to fight anyone.
So she sighed, opened her mouth, and leaned in to take the bite.
Well let’s just say she never got the chance.
Kade’s chair was yanked back.
Every head at the table snapped up.
And there she was.
Becky Armstrong.
Standing behind Kade, arms crossed, expression deadly calm.
“Get up.”
Kade blinked. “Uh, why?”
Freen rolled her eyes, already knowing Becky was about to make a scene. She continued eating her food on table, pretending not to care.
Becky’s fingers tightened around Kade’s chair. “I’ll count to five. And that’s only because you’re a friend. Move before I—”
She pulled the chair back again.
Kade yelped. “Okay, okay! Jeez, Becky!”
Kade dramatically stood up and shuffled beside Kirk, pouting like a kid whose toy was taken away.
Kirk smirked. Their plan was working perfectly.
Becky sat beside Freen. Claimed her space.
Then, without hesitation, she swapped their plates.
Kade gasped. Nam stifled a laugh. Irin? Mentally recording every detail.
And just when they thought Becky was done—
Kirk placed the milk tea beside Becky’s plate. “Don’t forget your special treat from me” krik said enthusiastically.
Becky didn’t react.
But Freen did.
Without looking, without hesitating, she reached over, grabbed the milk tea, and placed it beside her own meal.
And then she even went further to make it very clear—she took a sip and still kept the whole milk tea for herself.
The table fell dead silent.
Kade nearly choked on her rice. Kirk’s smirk disappeared. Nam’s chopsticks froze mid-air. Irin’s eyes widened, already mentally drafting her diary entry about this moment.
Becky?
She let out a long, slow sigh.
No protest. No argument.
She just picked up her chopsticks and continued eating as if nothing had happened.
That? That was dangerous.
Under the table, Kade and Kirk exchanged a silent high-five.
Nam leaned in and whispered to irin.
“I think this is real FreenBecky.”
Irin nodded. “The kind that keeps us all hydrated.”
Another day, another brand.
This time, a major company had approached them for their spring marketing campaign, eager to see what they could bring to the table.
And Freen?
She was more than ready.
Every strategy, every piece of research, every client persona—all neatly organized in her laptop, waiting for one perfect presentation.
They were seated in the boardroom, a sleek glass-walled space where power moves were made.
Becky, as always, was right beside Freen—not by choice, but by necessity.
Their partnership was a brand magnet, drawing interest from clients who found their dynamic irresistible.
Which meant?
They had to be together. Always. In front of everyone.
Freen didn’t mind. As long as Becky didn’t—
Freen stood up, walking over to grab a file from the back drawer.
And that’s when Becky saw it.
The perfect opportunity.
With one quick motion, she deleted the presentation file.
Gone. Not just dumped into the trash. Completely wiped. The move was so precise, so effortless, that no one beside her even noticed.
When Freen returned, she clicked confidently to start— And then froze.
Her screen stared back at her, empty. A flicker of confusion crossed her face.
She checked her folders. Nothing. The recycle bin? Empty. A flash of realization hit her. She didn’t need to guess who was behind it.
Slowly, Freen turned her gaze— Right into Becky’s smug, devilish smirk.
A silent challenge.
Any problem, Miss Chankimha? Becky’s expression taunted.
Freen clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to throw a stapler across the room.
Instead, she inhaled sharply, fingers gripping the edge of the table as her frustration simmered.
"The war is so on, Rebecca Patricia Armstrong."
Freen’s Counterattack
But Freen wasn’t one to break. She adjusted her posture, picked up a marker, and strode toward the whiteboard.
No slides? No problem. Because everything she had worked on was printed in her head.
With absolute confidence, she sketched charts, diagrams, keywords—explaining every detail with flawless precision.
She didn’t just recover— She elevated the entire pitch. The clients? Completely captivated.
Even Nam and Irin, seated at the other end of the table, exchanged silent glances of awe.
Becky, on the other hand— Fuming.
Under the table, her fingers twitched. She made small, invisible fists, pressing her nails into her palm.
This is exactly what she hates about Freen.
She hated how Freen always managed to come out perfect effortlessly.
No cracks. No stumbles.
Even when Becky threw fire at her feet, Freen managed to walk through without a single burn.
"Damn it."
But this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Freen sat in her office, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk, her thoughts deep and calculating. If Becky wanted to play dirty, then so could she. But this wasn’t about deleting files or messing with presentations.
No. Freen wanted to hit Becky where it truly hurt. And then—an idea struck. Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. Desperation.
That’s what drives her. Freen knew exactly what Becky craved—what she had been aching for. And so, she made a call.
It wasn’t hard to track down one of Becky’s flings. Nita. A woman Becky had charmed and discarded like all the others.
But Nita? She still remembered. She still held resentment. And with the right incentive—a filthy amount of money—Freen sealed the deal. "All you have to do is leave her hanging right when she needs you most." Nita laughed. "Oh, sweetheart, That’s a pleasure." And just like that, the trap was set.
Becky’s phone buzzed, and the moment she saw the name—her heart leaped. After what felt like an eternity of drought, finally, someone was here to pour rain on her deserted land. Tonight was the night.
By the time Nita knocked on Becky’s apartment door, Becky was already burning. And as soon as the door closed behind her, things escalated fast. Touch. Taste. Breathless sighs. Desperation. It was exactly what Becky needed.
But then—just as Becky was about to reach that breaking point, right when pleasure was about to take over—Nita pulled away.
Becky’s eyes snapped open. "What—?" Her voice was raw, shocked. Nita, already slipping back into her clothes, gave her a cruel smirk. " This," she said, "is for all the girls whose hearts you’ve broken with your little one-night games."
Becky stilled. Her mind barely had time to process before Nita delivered the final blow. "You know what, Becky? I finally understand why no one ever stays with you." Something in Becky’s chest tightened. "You’re selfish. Cold. You use people and throw them away."
"You're crossing a line, Nita," Becky warned, forcing herself to stay calm as she reached for her clothes.
But Nita wasn’t done. "You don’t have a single loving bone in your body. You see people as disposable. And that’s why—" she leaned in, voice viciously soft—"you’ll always be alone." With that, she stormed out, slamming the door.
Silence. Becky stood frozen, her fists clenched at her sides. The words still echoed in the room, sinking into the cracks she refused to acknowledge. It wasn’t about Nita leaving.
It wasn’t even about being left dry and high. It was about what she said. It was the fact that— What if she was right?
Something dark melancholy settled in Becky’s chest. Her jaw tightened, and before she could stop herself, she grabbed the lamp beside her bed—and smashed it against the floor.
The glass shattered—just like the thoughts spinning inside her. Her breathing was ragged, uneven. Her mind whispered something she hated to admit.
She was totally unaware of the fact that maybe… just maybe… she had never let anyone close. Not really. Because deep down, she already knew—she had one boundary that no one could ever cross.
Because that space? That space already belonged to someone else. And that was why she never let anyone stay. Never let anyone get closer than one night.
And maybe… she never would.