Chapter 270: The Anonymous Account

By Chapter 270, Freya no longer expected important discoveries to arrive with dramatic warnings. The most dangerous information often appeared in ordinary documents, buried between dates, technical labels, and explanations that only became meaningful when compared with something else. That was why she read the latest report twice before saying anything.

The anonymous architecture account posts one final accusation implying the competition was fixed through Louis's influence.

Derek preserved the material before the wider team discussed it. That rule had become automatic. Claire received the narrative records, Mercer handled technical interpretation, and lawyers dealt with anything involving private data or ownership. Louis stayed close enough to know what affected Freya's safety, but he no longer assumed that concern gave him the right to make every decision for her.

Freya appreciated the change. Their marriage had survived too much to return to the old pattern of one person deciding what the other needed to know. She had become particularly sensitive to withheld information. A secret could be strategically justified and still damage trust. Both things could be true at once.

This time the claim crosses into provably false allegations, so Sunroom's counsel sends a narrow legal notice requesting correction and preservation of records.

Outside the investigation, life continued with almost stubborn normality. Sunroom had drawings to review, Awake Stories had manuscripts moving through editing, and The Open Page had a calendar full of events. Freya deliberately kept those responsibilities separate from Crosswind. She refused to become a woman whose entire identity revolved around explaining why she had awakened in a novel.

That afternoon, she spent nearly an hour reviewing design revisions with Helen. Nobody in the meeting mentioned Mirror, Identity Bridge, or the hidden manuscript. They argued about circulation, lighting, storage, and whether a public reading area needed additional acoustic separation. Freya left the room feeling clearer than she had before entering it.

Ordinary work had become one of her best defenses against obsession. Mysteries encouraged people to treat every coincidence as a clue. Design did the opposite. A wall either fit the measurements or it did not. A budget either balanced or it did not. There was comfort in problems that admitted when they were solved.

Louis met her later for dinner. Their conversations had become easier over the years, but the investigation sometimes brought back the cautious rhythm of their first weeks in the apartment. Freya would state what she knew. Louis would ask what she planned to do. Neither would say the thing they were most worried about until several minutes later.

Still, even that hesitation was different now. Back then they had been strangers protecting themselves. Now they were partners trying not to frighten each other unnecessarily. The difference was small in appearance and enormous in meaning.

Freya opened her notebook after dinner and divided the page into three familiar sections: facts, interpretations, and unanswered questions. She had started the habit during the manuscript investigation and kept it because it prevented fear from disguising itself as logic.

The facts were recorded without decoration. The interpretations were written in pencil. The unanswered questions received no predictions at all.

She stared at the page for a while and thought of the hundreds of chapter headings still sealed away. Somewhere in those files, perhaps there was already a title for what she would do tomorrow. Perhaps there were several. Perhaps none of them would survive contact with her choices.

Derek's reports also listed alternative explanations whenever the evidence allowed them. Freya insisted on that practice because a mystery became dangerous when everyone silently agreed on the most exciting interpretation.

That possibility no longer disturbed her.

Freya closed the notebook. She had spent too much of her second life wondering whether she was following a story. These days she cared about a simpler standard: when the next choice arrived, would it actually be hers?

For the moment, that was enough.