The next morning, Freya stood barefoot in her kitchen, holding an empty box of cereal like it had personally betrayed her.
She stared at the bare cabinets—no bread, no eggs, not even a sad leftover donut from last week.
"Great," she muttered, tossing the cereal box onto the counter. "Starving to death in a scandal. Very Iconic."
She went to the corridor and peeked through the blinds. Reporters still camped outside her building like they were waiting for a royal baby to emerge.
Cameras, flashes, microphones—hell, one guy even had a drone.
Behind her, one of the guards coughed discreetly.
"You okay, Miss Davis?" he asked.
Freya turned around slowly, wearing a deadpan expression. "Unless you're hiding pancakes in your bulletproof vest, I'm going to need a grocery miracle."
He blinked. "We could go pick something up for you."
Freya sighed. "I know, I just... I don't want to be 'the girl who sends armed guards to get bananas.'"
She went back to the kitchen and leaned on the counter, phone in hand, scrolling through a grocery delivery app she couldn't bring herself to trust.
Then her phone lit up.
Alex calling…
She hesitated. Then picked up.
"Hey," she said cautiously.
"Hey, Frey. Just checking in," Alex's voice was easy, but there was an edge to it. "Saw the headlines. Crazy week, huh?"
"Crazy's one word for it," she replied, moving to the window again. "My apartment's got more security than the White House and I haven't eaten since yesterday unless you count chocolate."
"That... sounds about right for you."
She chuckled softly. "Rude. But accurate."
There was a beat of silence.
"So," he said. "I gotta ask. Is it true?"
Freya closed her eyes. "Is what true?"
"You know. The photo. You and... Mr. Armani Suit. Was it really you?"
She bit her lip. "Alex, I really don't want to talk about that."
"Right. Sorry," he said quickly.
"It's fine," she muttered. "Just... tired of people asking like it's some celebrity hookup. It wasn't. It's not. It's complicated."
"Didn't mean to be one of them," He exhaled softly. "Okay. I'll drop it."
"Thanks."
Another pause.
"Need anything?" he asked, voice gentler now. "Groceries? Coffee? A gallon of sarcasm to pour over the press?"
Freya laughed. "I was just about to send one of the guards to buy cereal. So... yes. Please save me."
"Say no more. I'll be there in twenty."
She smiled. "You're a hero."
"Nah. Just a guy who doesn't want you living off despair and powdered cocoa."
When she hung up, she felt... lighter. Just a little.
Maybe breakfast wouldn't solve the world. But it might keep her sane another day.
_____
Exactly twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang.
One of the security guards stepped inside.
"Ma'am, A guy is outside. He said he's Alex, a colleague of yours."
"Oh, thanks." Freya flew to the door herself.
She cracked it open and peeked out. "Password?"
Alex grinned, holding up two paper bags. "Operation: Save the Journalist."
She stepped aside. "You're a lifesaver."
He handed her the bags and they walked to the kitchen. "Wow. You weren't kidding. There's absolutely nothing in that fridge."
"Don't judge me," she said, setting the groceries on the counter. "I've been living off dignity and spite."
He laughed as he watched her unload the items with wide eyes: milk, eggs, bread, strawberries, granola, and coffee beans.
"Did you rob a farmer's market?"
"You needed variety."
Freya reached for her purse. "Okay, how much do I owe you?"
Alex waved her off. "Nothing. It's on me."
She blinked. "No. Come on, let me—"
"Freya." He gave her a pointed look. "You've got a media circus at your door, a fake scandal brewing, and apparently no food. Let me do this one thing."
She sighed. "Fine. But I'm cooking you something embarrassing for dinner. Like mushroom lasagna with pineapple."
He grinned. "Deal."