6.
Auguste stopped agonizing over the impossible and turned his attention to the man who held the company’s fate in his hands.
“Representative, you’ve made your decision, haven’t you? You’re going through with that contract?”
“I have to.”
At Max’s clipped response, Auguste nodded.
“Understood. Then I’ll look into whether any details regarding our business or the divorce have leaked to Madam Russell or the Blanc family. There might be an employee whose head was turned by that woman’s money again.”
“…Also, check if there has been any contact between Freya and the Duke recently.”
“Ha, now that’s what I like to hear.”
Feeling a surge of satisfaction, Auguste picked up the newspaper that had been resting on the corner of the desk.
“Everything else about her was subpar, but your wife’s looks were at least tolerable. If it weren’t for that insane way she dressed, she wouldn’t have been outshone even by Mademoiselle Celeste.”
Auguste flipped to the next page and held the paper toward Max.
*Celeste, ‘Tucia’ Premiere at Opera Labrouste!*
The advertisement, which took up almost an entire page, depicted a woman in a low-cut gown against the backdrop of the Neo-Baroque Opera Labrouste.
Even with nearly half her chest exposed, she carried the outfit with an alluring, regal grace that made the vulgar caricature of Freya on the previous page look all the more garish.
“Put that away.”
Max frowned instinctively, his gaze snapping away from the paper.
✦ ✦ ✦
The Blanc Ducal Family was one of the few high-aristocratic dynasties to survive two revolutions and the rise of the empire.
Like the philosopher’s maxim—’That which does not kill me makes me stronger’—the family had held firm while others crumbled, eventually rising to lead the royalists and seizing both wealth and absolute power.
Freya Russell, or rather, Freya Blanc, was the only daughter of the Duke who had become the most influential politician in Grandcen.
At this very moment, Hervé Durand felt a profound skepticism toward his profession for the first time since opening his notary office.
“Then, I will confirm one last time.”
His hand, clutching the original copy of the contract, trembled slightly.
“The contracting parties are Madam Freya Russell and Monsieur Max Russell. The terms are as follows.”
*The parties agree to complete legal divorce proceedings within 24 months.*
*In exchange for her consent, Monsieur Max Russell agrees to provide Madam Freya Russell with business training at his company for the duration of these 24 months.*
*Should this contract be breached, Madam Freya Russell shall transfer the mining rights held by the Blanc family to Monsieur Max Russell.*
*Should this contract be breached, Monsieur Max Russell shall waive all spousal rights regarding the dowry managed by Madam Freya Russell as personal property since the marriage.*
*Until the divorce is finalized, the parties must fully fulfill all social obligations and duties incumbent upon a married couple.*
*Both parties and the notary are bound to strict confidentiality; any violation shall result in immediate legal action and claims for damages.*
Oh, God. As he read the final clause, Hervé cursed the heavens. It was nothing short of a death warrant.
A cold, noble threat: if a single word of this reached the public, the Blanc and Russell families would see to it that his entire lineage was ruined.
Feeling the metaphorical reaper’s scythe against his throat, Hervé laid two copies of the document before the couple.
“If you sign here, this agreement takes effect immediately.”
✦ ✦ ✦
As they exited the Imperial Notary’s office, looking as pale as if they’d seen a ghost, the warm May sun bathed them in unearned light.
Once they stood on the street, Freya held out her hand to Max.
“Take care of me for the next two years, ex-husband.”
“…It’s not that yet.”
Their hands, joined for the first time in a long while, felt deceptively warm and soft.
“I was just practicing.”
Freya smiled, a look of fleeting relief on her face, but she suddenly paused. Her lips parted as if to speak, then snapped shut, her gaze drifting away with a look of lingering regret.
Max knew exactly what she had been about to say.
*She probably wanted to ask if I remembered what day it was.*
Seeing her act so uncharacteristically—so humanly—these past few days, he felt a strange, jarring sense of relief.
Freya had always assumed he wouldn’t remember. Indeed, Max had made a habit of leaving the mansion during the week of their wedding anniversary every single year, regardless of his schedule.
In a sense, he had been ‘marking’ the anniversary just as clearly as if he had celebrated it. He remembered perfectly well that today was the day, five years ago, when they had sworn their eternal love.
“Go on ahead. I need to get back to the office.”
“…Yes. See you later.”
Swallowing her curiosity, Freya waved as if nothing were wrong and turned away. The day was as clear and bright as the day they had married. Freya didn’t cry; she simply smiled.
It was strange. Contrary to his expectation that he would feel relieved, Max couldn’t take his eyes off her retreating figure.
Regret? Him? Over Freya Blanc? Impossible. Scuffing away the ridiculous thought, Max turned on his heel.
Such lukewarm emotions didn’t suit them. If anything, it would be love-hate…
At the sound of footsteps fading behind her, Freya stopped. She felt a sudden, desperate urge to look back, but she forced herself to focus on the weight of the envelope in her hand.
She had neither the reason nor the right to hold onto him anymore. She had been the one to forge this path.
As the distance between her and the receding figure of Max widened, the finality of her choice settled over her.
Her composure, held together like a crumbling sandcastle, threatened to wash away.
*It’s okay. It will work out. This time for sure… This time for sure…*
Freya closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her trembling shoulders steadied. When she opened her eyes again, her expression was etched with a new, brittle resolve.
She had to hurry; there was one more place she needed to visit before returning to the mansion.
✦ ✦ ✦
When she returned, Milla greeted her with a bright, beaming face.
“How was your outing with the Representative?”
“…It was pleasant.”
Freya looked away, feeling a prickle of awkwardness. Milla clearly believed they had gone out to celebrate their anniversary.
“Since you went out together, it would have been lovely if you had stayed for dinner, even if it meant postponing your appointment with Madam Pernel.”
“It was pleasant enough. Has the Madam arrived?”
“Yes, just a little while ago. I’ve guided her to the drawing room on the second floor.”
“Good job.”
Freya headed straight for the drawing room.
“Madam Pernel.”
As she entered, a woman of middle age rose from the sofa to greet her.
“Madam Russell, it is an honor.”
The face was familiar to Freya, but the woman acted as if they were meeting for the first time. It was true, of course; they had never met in person.
“I am the one who is grateful. Please, sit.”
Freya masked her discomfort and gestured to the seat.
Usually, aristocratic women met in neutral territory—salons, tea rooms, or exhibitions—before inviting one another to a private residence. But Madam Pernel was an exception.
Madam Inès Pernel had been left with four children after her husband, a count, was killed in the Emperor’s wars of conquest. It was considered a disgrace for a woman of her standing to work, but she possessed a dormant, sharp business instinct.
Her second-hand clothing boutique had been a runaway success; it was said that every woman in Luthes—save for the very highest of the nobility—had shopped there at least once.
She had become an accidental icon for widows and divorcees trying to survive without shaming their families.
“The weather is quite lovely today, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. A day like this makes one long for a picnic in the park.”
They engaged in the customary, lighthearted small talk as Milla poured the tea.
They touched upon the city’s leisure culture and the new department stores, and once the rhythm of the conversation felt sufficiently settled, Freya steered it toward her intent.
“As you must already know, I would like to offer my clothes to your boutique.”
“It would be a privilege to count Madam Russell as a client.”
Madam Pernel lifted her teacup, her eyes thoughtful.
“It would certainly be a profit for me. However, I am not certain if it is a necessity for you, Madam.”
A transaction, at its core, was an exchange of equal value. Madam Pernel’s question was as reasonable as it was piercing.