RED NOTES AND KISSES
Chapter 125: FRIDA - 125

Chapter 125: FRIDA: Chapter 125

Frida stood in front of the mirror, her mother’s venomous words replaying endlessly in her mind, each repetition chipping away at her sense of self.

If she wasn’t her real daughter, then who was she?

She stared at her reflection, searching for answers in the face she had always known but now doubted. And Laurel? Did Laurel know? Had they all been deceiving her this entire time?

Her chest tightened as the questions piled up, suffocating her with their weight. She sighed heavily, opening the drawer beneath the mirror and pulling out a box of hair dye.

Pouring the solution onto her scalp, she worked it through her hair with trembling hands. The rich, acrid scent filled the room, matching the chaos in her head. If everything else was falling apart, she might as well look the part.

As the dye bleached her dark locks into a pale blonde, she stared at the transformation in the mirror, a stranger slowly emerging in her reflection. She never thought she’d go blonde, but then again, she never thought her life would unravel like this.

Her gaze shifted to her phone resting on the counter. Her finger hovered over Laz’s name in her contacts. Should she call him?

Her thumb quivered over the call button. Was it fair to rely on him? To expect him to always be there to fix her problems, to pull her out of the chaos she always seemed to find herself in?

She sighed, dropping the phone onto the counter.

"Maybe not," she murmured to herself, staring at her reflection once more. A part of her craved his comfort, but another part knew that this was something she had to face on her own.

Frida swept her newly blonde hair into a messy bun, her reflection catching the bold transformation she’d undertaken. She glanced at the vanity overflowing with makeup, her fingers settling on a tube of dark red lipstick.

"If they’re going to force me into this, I might as well look appalling," she muttered, applying the lipstick with a defiant swipe.

Her wardrobe offered little help—all modest, conservative dresses that would only uphold her parents’ image. She dug deeper, pulling out a forgotten piece Laurel had gifted her on her eighteenth birthday.

It was an emerald green mini dress, strapless with a sweetheart neckline, backless, and barely modest enough to qualify as a dress. Laurel had called it her "clubbing initiation outfit," though Frida had never dared wear it.

She smiled wickedly. "Perfect."

She paired it with fishnet knee-high stockings and sky-high Jimmy Choo stilettos. A spritz of perfume—sickly sweet and overwhelmingly floral, a scent designed to repel rather than attract—completed the ensemble. For good measure, she fastened a diamond choker around her neck, its elegance contrasting sharply with her rebellious intent.

Before heading out, she slipped a needle and pen into her purse—practical tools, should the night take a darker turn.

As she stepped into the grand hall, the room’s chatter quieted. Heads turned, eyes widening as they took her in.

Frida carried herself with a confidence that bordered on regal, her every step commanding attention. She knew she looked stunning—irresistible, even—but also utterly inappropriate for the evening’s intended purpose.

She caught Evelyn’s gaze, the subtle flicker of disapproval in her mother’s sharp eyes was all the validation she needed.

Frida smirked, plucking a wine glass from a passing waiter’s tray. She took a deliberate sip, savoring the sweet taste of her rebellion. Evelyn might want to parade her in front of her so-called fiancé, but not like this.

Mission accomplished.

Evelyn approached Frida with calculated, deliberate strides, her expression a mask of icy disdain. "And what monstrosity are you wearing?" she said, her voice sharp and cutting.

Frida picked up a canapé from a passing tray, popping it into her mouth with an exaggerated relish. "I believe it’s Versace," she replied with a nonchalant smile.

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed. "I’ll be bringing our distinguished guest over shortly. Do try to be on your best behavior."

Frida shrugged, leaning against the table lazily. "I don’t think I’ve ever been anything else. But really, Mother, what makes you think you can force me to marry anyone?"

Evelyn’s smile was cold, her tone laced with menace. "Frida, you’ve spent your entire life trying to please me. But it seems you’ve forgotten why." She stepped closer, her presence suffocating. "I gave you the life of a rich, privileged child, free from worries. And I can take it all away in an instant. I can destroy everything."

Frida felt a chill crawl up her spine, but she stood her ground. "What would you do?" she asked, her voice daring but tinged with uncertainty.

Evelyn tilted her head, her smirk deepening. "You think it’s easy to get into medical school? What do you suppose people would say if they discovered you manipulated the results to get accepted?"

Frida’s eyes widened. "That’s not true!" she snapped, her voice rising.

Evelyn’s smirk turned into a full smile, cold and calculated. "Perhaps," she said with an air of mock indifference, "but the truth doesn’t matter when rumors take root."

Frida clenched her fists, her voice trembling with defiance. "It would ruin your reputation too. You wouldn’t dare."

Evelyn stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Wouldn’t I? What if the world found out you were nothing more than an imposter pretending to be a Michaels daughter all these years?"

The blood drained from Frida’s face as Evelyn placed a hand on her shoulder, her grip firm and commanding. "Do as you’re told, Frida. This isn’t worth throwing your life away for."

Evelyn’s words lingered in the air like a poisonous cloud, leaving Frida frozen, her resolve shaken.

The conversations around Frida were an endless drone of business and politics—topics she couldn’t care less about. She sipped her wine, dodging as many men as she could, each of them seemingly magnetized to her presence.

Everything was going smoothly until she saw her parents striding toward her, flanked by a distinguished older man and a younger one who looked to be in his late twenties.

"Mr. Hemsworth, this is my daughter, Frida. And Frida, this is Mr. Hemsworth and his son, John Hemsworth Jr.," Evelyn said, her voice dripping with forced warmth as she shot Frida a warning glance.

Frida forced a polite smile, taking John Jr.’s extended hand. "Pleasure to meet you, although you might still need to meet the real Frida someday," she said, her tone sweet but laced with mischief.

The words hung in the air like a bomb, and she saw both her mother and father stiffen, their carefully crafted smiles faltering. Evelyn’s sharp intake of breath was almost satisfying.

Frida raised her fingers to her lips in mock surprise. "Oops! Did I say something wrong?"

Evelyn’s mask slipped for just a moment before she snapped her fingers at a server. "Wine, anyone?" she said coolly, her voice tight.

A waiter rushed over, balancing an expensive bottle, but Frida shifted her weight, stretching her aching legs in the too-high heels. Her movement startled the waiter, and he stumbled, sending the wine cascading directly onto Mr. Hemsworth’s immaculate suit.

"Oh no!" Frida exclaimed, her voice filled with exaggerated concern. She didn’t bother to hide her grin as her mother stood frozen, her expression cold and unreadable.

Through the chaos, John Jr. remained unnervingly calm. As if on cue, he dropped to one knee and produced a small, red velvet box from his pocket.

"I’ve never met a woman so true to herself," he said, opening the box to reveal an elaborate diamond ring.

Frida felt her heart race and took a step back, her breath quickening in panic. "What—what are you doing?"

The room seemed to blur around her as she stared at him, the walls closing in. The weight of expectations, manipulation, and the life she didn’t want pressed down on her, suffocating her.

Frida took a deep, steadying breath, straightening her posture despite the turmoil churning inside her. As if on cue, a loud pop of champagne cork punctuated the air, drawing everyone’s attention.

Her eyes darted to the source of the commotion, and there he was—Pierre, the man she had seen with Delancie at the restaurant. He stood with a smug smirk plastered across his face, a picture of confidence and mischief.

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over Frida, giving her hope. But that feeling was short-lived. Before she could stop herself, her stomach lurched violently, and she doubled over, emptying its contents all over John’s expensive suit.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like an electric shock. Frida’s body burned with embarrassment and fever, her head pounding as she caught Evelyn’s searing glare.

John recoiled in disgust, his jaw tightening as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping futilely at the mess. Without a word, he slipped the engagement ring back into his pocket, his face dark with anger.

Frida felt her knees weaken, her vision blurring. Ignoring the murmurs and horrified stares, she staggered back to her room, each step heavier than the last. Once inside, she leaned against the wall, panting.

She fumbled for the IV drip in the corner of her room and quickly set it up, attaching the line with practiced precision. The cool saline began to flow into her veins, but the fatigue wouldn’t lift. "I must be so dehydrated," she murmured weakly to herself, her voice barely audible.

Collapsing onto the bed, she stared at the ceiling, her mind spinning. Where was Laz? Was he safe? Was he even alive? And Delancie—what had happened to her?

She sighed deeply, her body too drained to keep the questions from swirling in her head. As her eyelids fluttered closed, her thoughts remained restless, a storm of worry and unanswered questions.