9.
On the weekend that followed, Freya, who had stopped by the department store as promised, turned to watch Milla. Milla was letting out small gasps of admiration, her eyes darting across the interior.
Under the sunlight streaming through the glass ceiling, the central hall stretched open from the first floor all the way to the top. A grand, S-shaped staircase connected the first level to the second, its balustrades wrapped in intricate vine patterns. Beyond them, shops filled with luxury goods lined the corridors.
Named after the palaces where kings once lived, the department store was as imposing as its name suggested.
The women’s clothing stores, their destination, were mostly located on the second floor.
As they catered to a mass audience, the dresses on display were uniform—stamped out in standard sizes and shapes. While minor alterations were possible after purchase, bespoke tailoring was never an option.
Despite these drawbacks, the fabric quality and the delicacy of the lace in these store-bought goods were distinct from the dresses made by the private tailor who visited the mansion. Recalling the clothes she had been wearing lately, Freya reached out to touch the fabric without hesitation.
“Oh my, this dress matches Madam’s eye color perfectly.”
Watching Milla bounce on her toes in front of a teal bustle dress—the kind a middle-class woman might wear on a picnic—and a matching veil-adorned hat, Freya couldn’t help but laugh. Milla’s pleasant excitement was infectious.
Half-pushed by Milla, she purchased the dress, hat, and shoes. With time to spare, she debated whether to grab an early lunch.
“Madam, there’s a lounge over there.”
Milla pointed to a sign in the corner of the central hall.
Milla seemed to genuinely think of it as a place to rest, but Freya knew better. In truth, the department store’s goods lacked the prestige required by high society; its revenue relied on the petite bourgeoisie aspiring to aristocratic life and lower-tier nobles with modest wealth.
To the upper class, the department store was less a place to shop and more a secondary social venue.
*At this hour, might she be here, too?* Now that the thought occurred to her, it wouldn’t hurt to check. Freya turned in the direction Milla had pointed.
“Yes, let’s rest there for a while before going to eat.”
As Freya walked nonchalantly, Milla followed.
True to its promise of a luxurious atmosphere, the pristine white lounge door featured an acanthus pattern stamped in gold leaf. A department store employee stood beside it, mimicking the posture of a footman.
The moment the employee opened the door, the chattering inside cut off instantly.
The lounge was decorated like a noblewoman’s private parlor. Over a dozen ladies were seated across the spacious room, occupied with round tables, long, reclining couches, and various plush sofas.
Only then did Milla realize this was a social gathering spot for noblewomen. She turned pale and furtively grabbed the hem of Freya’s dress, a silent gesture to turn back. But before Freya could react, a voice laced with ridicule cut through the silence.
“I didn’t know even someone like Madam Freya shopped at department stores.”
*Madam Freya.* At the grating title, Freya’s head turned naturally.
The voice had come from a group of women who looked as if they had just finished their debutante season. At the center sat a woman with a face like a vibrant rose, casting a mocking gaze her way.
If Freya had encountered her before, she would have remembered; the woman was a stranger. She was likely from an obscure noble family or a petite bourgeois background—the kind that would have no reason to cross paths with a lady like her.
“Mademoiselle Bouchard, is she the one…?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
As the woman wearing pince-nez beside her feigned knowledge, Mademoiselle Bouchard widened her mouth, staring at Freya with open derision.
“She was famous last year. It even made the newspapers.”
At the mention of ‘last year,’ the other ladies’ gazes shifted to Bouchard in an instant. Bouchard wore a triumphant expression.
“At first, they say she was gripped by the delusion that her husband was cheating, so she secretly hired investigators to track his background. After that, she went to each woman her husband met and threatened them, one by one. And when someone finally appeared who didn’t buckle under her threats, she tried to deal with them in secret—that famous Madam Russell is the very person standing right there.”
Even though this was likely a fact well-known to every woman in the room, a collective sigh erupted. Simultaneously, the gazes fixed on Bouchard shifted to Freya—swirling with hostility, contempt, mockery, and jealousy, as if to shred her apart.
“Madam, I’m sorry.”
Milla, seemingly trying to shield her, stood close to Freya’s side and began to tear up.
“Ah… so her husband is Monsieur Max Russell.”
Pity surfaced in the eyes of a woman nearby. Naturally, the person she was pitying was not Freya, but Max.
“Monsieur Russell must have had a very difficult time being dragged into an unwanted scandal.”
Although their gazes were directed at Freya, their tone suggested they were speaking to Max, not her.
“I heard the last person she threatened was Madam Rossignol?”
A woman sitting on the other side chimed in.
“I heard that Monsieur Russell had to exert such effort to persuade Madam Rossignol against suing her that it even interfered with his business.”
“If it’s Madam Rossignol, her husband is still very much around, isn’t he? How could she target someone like that…. It’s scandalous.”
“This is all… a tragedy that occurred because Monsieur Russell is far too perfect, isn’t it? A demon, jealous of his perfect life, guided him to the Blanc castle.”
Bouchard, who had been listening, eyes glittering like a hawk spotting prey, leaned forward. She wore a smile, holding her posture with pride.
“It might truly be the work of a demon. Otherwise, who would hold onto someone who doesn’t want them for ten years, only to use that person’s crisis as a pretext to force a marriage, and then be so unsatisfied that they keep clinging to them even while committing crimes?”
Bouchard’s gaze locked directly with Freya’s.
“She seems to firmly believe it’s love, but who in the world would call such a terrible emotion love? That should be called obsession and madness.”
If there were just a few logs here, it would be the perfect scene for a witch burning. Freya, listening quietly to these younger women holding a public execution, thought calmly.
Such sarcasm and condemnation had once brought her to her knees.
The women who claimed to have been threatened by her had popped up everywhere like mushrooms, lending weight to the reports. Madam Rossignol had visited her husband’s office every other day, making a scene and threatening to take her to court.
People waited for the chance to curse Freya as a ‘woman mad for her husband,’ a ‘deranged shrew,’ and a ‘woman who would drive her husband to his death.’
She had never had a chance to defend herself. Not even to Max.
As they said, she had been insane. She had monitored his every move and investigated every woman he met.
And she had met them.
She knew she shouldn’t have done that. That was why she had kept quiet. It wasn’t that she feared the criticism of others; she simply didn’t want to be hated by her husband any more than she already was.
After she had endured that suffering, half a year later, her husband declared their divorce.
Silence descended upon the lounge once more.
Freya lowered her gaze to gather her thoughts, then looked back at Bouchard. The woman was confident, full of the power her youth and beauty possessed—a woman who had likely never been challenged.
Freya slowly parted her lips.
“Among you… has anyone actually spoken to those women? The ones I supposedly threatened?”
At the unexpected question, confusion flickered on the women’s faces. The one who replied curtly was, as expected, Bouchard.
“Do we have to meet them to know? It’s a story that was detailed in the newspaper.”
“What did the newspaper say I did to threaten them?”
“…Th-that is…. It’s already been half a year; how could I remember all those details! You would remember it, of course, since it was your own affair.”
“That’s right. I do remember. Because it was my affair.”
Freya nodded and continued.
“In my memory, I didn’t threaten them; I made them an offer. Just as Mademoiselle Bouchard said, I researched them thoroughly. I made a proposal. If they would disappear from my husband’s periphery, I would give them what they desired. Some wanted money, others wanted entrance tickets to a secret club, and ah, there was also the matter of preventing a young man from being enlisted in the military, as his family had intended.”
Freya let out a small laugh as if recalling something ridiculous.
“For the record, there was no one who refused my offer. So how could that be a threat?”
“Th-that’s because they must have thought they didn’t know what you would do if they refused!”
“Is that so? With only one exception, the women I met felt as though they were mocking me. I had begged them. Please, I asked, do not shake my husband’s heart. And if they had truly been afraid of me, they wouldn’t have published those articles.”
At Freya’s answer, a few of them gasped.
“Then what about Madam Rossignol?”
The woman with the pince-nez asked.