Chapter 1
“Alright, bride, link your arms with the groom. Groom, please raise your arm naturally, as if escorting her. Yes, that’s perfect. Hold still. Here we go, taking the shot!”
Marrying in May, the month dedicated to the Holy Mother, supposedly brings infertility. Even without such superstitions, the marriage was a lightning rod for gossip.
From the kingdom to two revolutions and an imperial reign following a coup d’état—it was a union between the only daughter of a great aristocratic family with royal blood, one that had survived the most turbulent eras, and the grandson of the revolutionary hero who had toppled that very monarchy.
*Even if you grafted a dog and a cat together, they’d look more harmonious.* The only one who failed to notice that the wedding guests were clapping with their hands while pointing fingers with their minds was the bride, who remained blindingly beautiful.
On the day of his only daughter’s wedding, Duke Blanc had summoned the most skilled and expensive photographer in Luthes to the venue.
Once the main session concluded, the photographer suggested a private indoor shoot for the couple, claiming it was the latest trend. Before heading to the reception, the bride and groom returned to the silence of the chapel.
At the photographer’s request, the bride shyly clung to the groom’s arm. Her long, slender fingers rested against his firm forearm; his hand moved to her waist. She stole a glance at his profile.
Beneath blonde hair that caught the light like wheat fields under a summer sun, his eyes—the color of the deep Mediterranean—were fixed indifferently ahead. She traced the line of his straight nose down to his pale lips. Those lips were notoriously difficult to open, at least for her.
The boy she had foolishly mistaken for a prince on her eighth birthday had grown into a man, and the words she had blurted out in childhood ignorance had become her reality.
There had been twists and turns, but she never doubted this was the “happily ever after” meant for them.
Like a princess and a prince in a storybook, the eighteen-year-old bride stood against the chapel wall, adjusting her posture and dreaming of a fairytale future.
The photographer inserted a metal plate into the large bronze camera and pressed the shutter. A *pop* echoed through the room.
Against the backdrop of the chapel’s intricate stained glass, where the bright May sunlight poured in, the bride stood in a snow-white dress with a translucent veil trailing to the floor. She could not hide her joy, her smile soft and radiant. Beside her, the groom in his black tuxedo maintained the same frozen, expressionless mask he had worn throughout the ceremony.
Though it was a distant memory now, that day remained as vivid as if it were yesterday. It was the happiest day of her life.
“You seem to be in a good mood today.”
Freya, who had been gazing at the black-and-white photograph resting on the corner of her vanity, looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror.
“Do I look like it?”
Milla replied as she brushed Freya’s fine, chocolate-colored hair.
“Yes. These past few days… you’ve been struggling quite a bit. You haven’t even been able to sleep properly. You seem much better today.”
“…Yes. I suppose I did.”
Freya nodded quietly, though she didn’t quite remember much of what happened before ‘yesterday.’ At this point in time, she surely would have anticipated her husband’s notice of divorce to some extent.
“How long does the Master say he will be staying this time?”
Milla, assuming Freya’s improved mood was due to the long, calm conversation she’d had with Max in his office yesterday, continued the conversation.
*Well… I wonder.* Freya leaned back against the chair, languidly feeling the brush’s rhythm against her hair.
Max was busier than he could manage during this period. The fact that he had carved out time to stop by the mansion—even while so occupied—meant he was desperate enough for a divorce to deliver the news in person.
If she had refused his demand yesterday, he would have walked out without a second thought. But now….
“He’ll be home for the entire week, at least.”
“Really? That’s wonderful!”
Milla’s face brightened. She was the only servant who had followed Freya from the Blanc household. She was like a sister, the only one who had remained by her side as she slowly went insane in this cold, imposing mansion.
“By any chance… are you thinking of spending your wedding anniversary together?”
Because it was Milla who asked, Freya couldn’t help but swallow a bitter smile. It seemed the fact that their conversation ended without a commotion yesterday meant that much to the maid. They hadn’t exchanged words without flushing with anger in two years, so the hope was understandable.
But yesterday’s peace had nothing to do with Max’s intentions. Their marriage was, for all intents and purposes, in ruins. Milla’s assumption was nothing more than a wishful dream.
*I can guarantee that Max doesn’t even know when our wedding anniversary is. And even if he did, there’s no way he would celebrate it. …Though I suppose I wouldn’t know if it were our ‘divorce anniversary.’*
Knowing how sincerely Milla hoped for their reconciliation—or rather, the reconciliation Freya herself had once desired—Freya rose from her seat.
“Milla, I need to organize the wardrobe.”
“Pardon? Oh, yes!”
As Freya stepped out in her nightgown, Milla hurried to follow. The dressing room was filled with dresses that seemed desperate to reveal as much bare skin as possible, all to catch a man’s eye.
“Contact Madam Pernel and tell her I’d like her to visit. I wish to dispose of these dresses and accessories.”
Freya selected an ivory empire-style chemise dress and a few others in subdued colors.
“Should I have the rest packed?”
“No. Dispose of everything except these.”
“Oh, I see. Then shall I also contact Madam Beaudouin?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
Milla, who usually complied with every request, looked perplexed. “Are you not going to have any new dresses made?”
The dresses she had collected like a madwoman were the result of a demented obsession to catch Max’s eye just once more. She didn’t need them now. Besides, she didn’t want to leave behind a mountain of luggage when she eventually vacated the house. She couldn’t explain that, so she chose to soothe Milla instead.
“I just meant there’s no need to summon an expensive tailor. Let’s go to the department store this weekend instead.”
Who else would skip an expensive tailor if not the only daughter of Duke Blanc? Milla tilted her head, but soon replied brightly.
“Yes, let’s do that! It’s been a while since we’ve been out. Let’s visit the newly opened Louvre Department Store, too.”
“Yes, and while we’re at it, let’s stop by Printemps.”
“Pardon? Printemps? I’ve never heard of that name; is it a newly opened place?”
Seeing Milla’s confusion, Freya realized her mistake and bit her lip.
“No, never mind. I confused it with somewhere else.”
“Oh, I see. Then….”
As Milla began to chatter excitedly, a knock sounded at the dressing room door.
“Madam, Madam Russell is asking for you.”
The footsteps retreated before Freya could respond. The atmosphere, which had briefly lightened, stiffened instantly. Milla looked at Freya with a troubled expression.
*It was about time she came looking.*
Freya patted Milla’s shoulder to signal she was fine, changed into an appropriate outfit, and stepped out.
✦ ✦ ✦
There were two Madams Russell in this mansion. Whenever both were in the same room, Freya ceased to be ‘Madam Russell’ and became just ‘Madam Freya.’
“Mathilde, I heard you called for me.”
“Freya, come in. Here, bring some tea for Madam Freya.”
*Madam Freya.* An honorific attached to her first name instead of her surname. Her mother-in-law had begun using the title—usually reserved for women of the streets—during the third year of their marriage, when Freya turned twenty.
At twenty, when their wedding day remained the first and last time they had ever kissed, Freya had been unable to hold back her tears at the humiliation. She had been so young, so naive.
Freya let out a self-deprecating laugh.
“I’m fine on tea. I’ve already had some.”
“Oh, really? Madam Freya says she doesn’t need any tea.”
“Yes, I understand.”
The maid’s mouth curled into a faint sneer. Contempt flickered in the gaze she cast at Freya. Even the servants who had been bewildered at first had grown accustomed to treating her as a laughingstock over the past three years.
However, the air in the room, thick with the scent of conspiracy, shifted into a strange silence the moment Freya spoke again.
“Madam Russell, why have you called for me?”
She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t on the verge of tears. At the voice that simply asked for the purpose of the meeting with perfect composure, Mathilde lost her words, staring at Freya in stunned silence.