Harley’s P.O.V.

I turned, my breath hitching in my throat as I recognized the voice almost instantly.

Aunt Freya stood there, dressed in black from head to toe, mourning silk flowing around her like a quiet storm. Grief clung to her, but so did power.

The kind that didn’t shout, didn’t threaten, yet demanded to be acknowledged.

Her hair was pinned neatly back, her posture unyielding as she stepped forward and stopped beside Carlos.

“I am Carlos Laynox’s maternal aunt,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “And he has my blessings.”

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. I stared at her, unable to speak, unable to even blink. My...