RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 114: FRIDA -

As they entered the Airbnb, they found Delancie still sitting comfortably in the living room, as if she owned the place.

"You’re still here?" Laziel sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Frida rolled her eyes dramatically, tossing her coat onto the couch before plopping down, crossing her legs with impatience. "Five seconds," she reminded him.

"One," she began to count.

Delancie chuckled, her laugh as sharp as her designer heels. "I see why you like her. Must be nice having a feisty version of Brooke Shields," she quipped, pouring herself a glass of wine and making herself at home.

Laziel exhaled sharply. "Delancie is a wannabe fiancée," he explained, his tone dripping with disdain. "My mom paired me up with her—best friends with Delancie’s mom back in the day. They decided, like it was still the 18th century, to ’betroth’ us while we were babies. Total nonsense."

Frida cringed, turning a shocked gaze toward Laz. "She’s that man’s daughter?"

Laz nodded grimly.

Frida leaned forward. "Wait—her dad was married at the time?"

"Exactly," Laz confirmed with a sigh. "While her mom was my mom’s ’best friend,’ she was also sleeping with her husband behind her back. Messy doesn’t even cover it."

Frida shook her head. "Sounds like a soap opera."

"Oh, it gets worse," Laz said, glancing at her. "Reg is the result of that little affair."

Frida’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Reg is your sister?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Half-sister," Laz clarified. "Delancie’s dad."

"What the actual—" Frida began but stopped when the TV screen lit up with an image that froze her blood.

There they were: Governor Justin Hampton, tall and imposing, alongside Mayor Elisa Markson—Laz’s mother—and her long-time boyfriend.

The trio stood proudly at an event, cameras flashing as they unveiled a children’s foundation.

Frida’s stomach churned as she recognized faces that had destroyed lives, hers included. "This is bad," she whispered, swallowing hard.

"You think?" Laz said with a shrug, his voice bitter.

Her eyes remained glued to the screen as the camera panned to a group of dignitaries, including her father, the Speaker of the House, and her mother, a federal senator. Laurel, the Secretary of State, stood nearby, her poised smile betraying nothing.

"This is hell," Frida muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

Delancie’s phone rang, jolting them from the tense moment. She stood, her face pale, answering the call with trembling hands. "Chelsea... oh my God, finally," she whispered, her French accent more frantic than usual. "Don’t hang up, please. I’m not marrying him. I swear, I’ll find a way out of this."

She paced as her voice grew desperate. "No, Chelsea, you don’t understand. My father—he’ll kill us both. This isn’t a joke!" Her words broke into a sob. "Please, Chelsea, don’t give up on me. I’ll figure something out. I just need time..."

The call disconnected, and Delancie let out a scream of frustration, hurling her phone across the room. She grabbed the wine glass and downed it in one gulp.

"Whoa, easy there. Are you trying to kill yourself?" Frida asked, alarmed.

"My father is forcing me to marry Laz," Delancie spat out, tears streaming down her face. "Even though he knows I’m gay."

Frida blinked, taken aback.

"He’s threatening to take everything from me—the company I’ve worked my entire life for—if I don’t go through with it," Delancie cried, her voice breaking. She suddenly dropped to her knees, looking up at Laz and Frida with pleading eyes.

"Please help me," she begged, clasping her hands together. "I love Chelsea. I can’t lose her. Please, I’ll do anything."

Frida’s cheeks flushed, a wave of awkwardness washing over her. She glanced at Laz, who was calmly making coffee, a smug smirk tugging at his lips that she wanted to slap right off.

"How can we help her?" Frida asked, clearing her throat.

Laz shrugged as he sipped his coffee. "Plan one: ruin the engagement. Plan two: ruin the wedding. One of them has to work."

Delancie nodded, her mascara streaked from tears. "If not, I’m doomed to an eternity of hell with a man." She bawled louder, and Laz frowned, while Frida suppressed a laugh.

Frida sobered quickly. "We’re up against some of the most powerful people in America. This is risky."

Delancie wiped her cheeks, her confidence returning. "Why? You have one of the most powerful men in America as a boyfriend, and you’re the Shelly."

Frida turned to Laz, who had started dancing slowly to a song playing on the speakers.

"Who? Him?" Frida scoffed, nearly laughing. "He’s the sweetest guy ever. And Shelly is just a personality I have to manage. What are they, secret mafia?"

Delancie smirked, sliding on her sunglasses as she adjusted her designer outfit. Her high heels echoed against the floor as she headed toward the door. "Close enough. See you soon, partners."

As the door shut, frida didn’t dare look at him; the embarrassment burned through her, twisting her insides.

She stood quietly, attempting to tiptoe out of the parlor and up the stairs, hoping to melt into the bathroom and escape her humiliation.

"Oh no," his voice, dark and sinful, purred behind her. "Where do you think you’re going?"

Her heart jumped. She turned slowly, only to find him already far too close, his presence overwhelming.

"It was a misunderstanding," she said quickly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Was it?" he drawled, his tone rich with amusement, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Yes, it was," she insisted, her words faltering, her throat tightening as she tried to steady her breathing.

His gaze pinned her in place, and the edge in his voice was almost predatory. "Don’t you think you deserve to be punished? I knelt in the snow, Frida."

His words were thick, raw, and laced with something that made her heart race.

Her breath hitched as she whispered, "What do you want to do to me?" Her teeth grazed her bottom lip as her eyes flickered uncertainly.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned and strode toward the kitchen with a calm deliberation that made her nerves tingle. From a cabinet, he retrieved a box, unsealing it with practiced ease. When he returned, he held up something she recognized—spreader bars, sleek and gleaming.

Her stomach flipped.

"Get on the carpet," he ordered, his voice firm but controlled. "And open your legs."