36.
Her husband had abandoned her, but she was fine because she had her son. Her perfect son was her pride, her treasure, and her entire world.
And that very son had abandoned her. He had abandoned the mother who gave birth to him and raised him. All because of that stupid lady!
Clatter!
Just like that day twenty-two years ago when Max first notified Freya of the divorce, the sound of porcelain shattering echoed through the drawing room, lingering in the air long after the pieces hit the floor.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Lorenzo, is Max still talking with my mother?”
Freya, having just entered the mansion, spotted the butler passing by and asked.
“No, my lady. He should be in his bedroom now.”
Freya headed toward Max’s suite. As if to signify the widening distance between them, Max’s bedroom was situated far from her own.
Standing before the door, Freya involuntarily drew a sharp breath. Recalling the last time she had entered this room, her face flushed for no reason.
What on earth had she been thinking when she dared to invade his room and ravish her sleeping husband without wearing a single piece of undergarment?
‘Back then, I truly earned the reputation of a woman obsessed with her husband.’
With a long, shaky sigh and a moment of hesitation, Freya finally knocked.
“Come in.”
Max was holding a shirt, turning toward the door as she entered.
Perhaps he had just finished washing; moisture still clung to his hair and skin. Freya looked away, her pulse quickening as she caught a glimpse of his bare chest. Seeing her flustered expression, Max let out a soft chuckle as he pulled on his shirt and approached her.
“You didn’t come here just to stand in the doorway, did you?”
Her husband—who in the past wouldn’t have even allowed her to cross the threshold—was now welcoming her while half-undressed.
Hiding her embarrassment, Freya cleared her throat and met his gaze.
“I didn’t think you would come to the salon.”
From the moment she saw Ava Rossignol’s name on the guest list, she had assumed Max would stay away.
It was not a typical salon, but a stage for retribution arranged by Mathilde Russell. Even if Max had intended to go, Mathilde would likely have barred him from attending.
“Someone told me that my wife was going to attend the salon alone. I assumed that a couple’s duties included attending such events together. Was I mistaken?”
Who could have informed him? More importantly, did he truly come for her sake? Freya’s large, emerald eyes rippled like a lake disturbed by a stone.
A couple’s duty. She never imagined she would hear such a phrase pass his lips.
It was a clause she had added to the contract to maintain a facade of marital harmony, hoping to secure a decent relationship for the time they had left. She had never been greedy enough to ask for a real marriage; she had been satisfied with his compliance when she needed it.
Yet, here he was, seeking her out. And he had protected her.
Suddenly, she recalled cornering Madam Rossignol earlier. She had laid bare the woman’s sordid affairs and threatened to dig into her background. Freya’s expression darkened as she remembered her own promise to never let anyone touch her or her inner circle again.
“Max, I attacked Madam Rossignol because she targeted me first…”
“There’s no need to explain. I already know she wasn’t someone you invited.”
“…Yes, it was Mathilde. This won’t happen again. I intend to have a showdown with Mother.”
She had to endure living under this roof until the end, so she was determined to ensure no further schemes could be hatched before her departure. That was why she had intentionally let Max see the friction between them. After today, the conflict between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law would be an established fact in Luthes high society.
Mathilde might not realize it yet, but Freya intended to systematically dismantle her influence. As her own reputation improved, society’s stance would shift, and Mathilde would eventually find herself isolated.
Today was merely the beginning of the plan. But then, Max spoke.
“Mother has decided to take a trip for a while.”
“…A trip? Why all of a sudden?”
Max watched his wife, who looked up at him with wide, rounded eyes, and reached out. His fingers snagged the ribbon at her neck, pulling it undone. The fabric fell away, revealing the pale, slender line of her throat.
A red mark, now beginning to heal, was visible at the base of her neck.
As Max’s thumb grazed the thin wound, her lips parted with a sharp, indrawn breath.
“Because I told her to go.”
“Why would you…?”
Watching his confused wife, Max reflected. Who would dare brandish a sword at the only daughter of the Blanc Ducal Family? Moreover, he knew that the Freya he had come to know would never invite such danger unless it was to protect him, Max Russell.
“I’m trying to believe in you. If you really are moving for my sake, then I will try to move for yours.”
Ah. A sigh-like gasp escaped her. She bowed her head, her expression unreadable. Disliking the distance, Max reached out to cup her face, forcing her to look at him.
Freya took a step back, her brow furrowing in warning.
“Max, don’t be good to me.”
After a silence, Max looked down at her with a wry laugh.
“Weren’t you the one who asked me to fulfill our couple’s duties and to trust you? First this, then that… which one is your true heart?”
That was true. Freya looked up, a faint, sad smile gracing her lips.
“What will you do if I change my mind later and say I don’t want to let you go?”
What would he do? If, in the end, this was all a long-con of the Blanc Family, and even she betrayed him?
He recalled her in the garden, taking the lead and cornering the Countess. She had changed. She was no longer the naive woman who knew nothing but him. Perhaps, as Auguste said, it was all a trap.
If she really does betray me…
Seeing him lost in thought, she tried to step away, her expression pained. The moment he saw her distance herself, his body betrayed his reservations. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her into him. Her wine-colored dress pressed against his damp skin.
“Max…”
At her whispered call, his hand moved to her nape. He felt her pulse hammering beneath his palm.
As Max lowered his head, their lips were close enough to brush. Their breathing synchronized, heavy and silent.
“At that time…”
She smelled of bergamot and light lotion. The woman who had been trying to flee did not pull back.
Time seemed to freeze. They remained at the distance of a single breath—the exact distance they were meant to keep as strangers forever.
Looking down at her in silence, Max finally released her. His voice was low and gravelly.
“At that time… we shall follow the contract.”
“…Yes, according to the contract.”
That was right. There was a contract.
Watching her husband retreat, Freya steadied her heated breath and rearranged her ribbon and clothes. She turned to the door, gripping the knob.
“Thank you… for coming today.”
She stepped out, but stopped in the hall, looking back toward his bedroom.
Do you know? The look in your eyes when you held me as if you wouldn’t leave a single gap between us?
‘If you come to find me, protect me, and look at me with those eyes… I will only look at you again. I will foolishly hope again. Because it feels like we, whose end is already set, could change. Because I might mistake your heart for being the same as mine. So please…’
✦ ✦ ✦
‘Madam Rossignol, is her true identity a femme fatale that would make Don Giovanni weep?’
That was the headline on the front page of ‘Présent Luthès’.
The article covered the scandal from the weekend salon at the Russell estate. It detailed that the Count and Countess of Rossignol were in divorce proceedings and that the Countess had been committing adultery with numerous nobles.
‘Présent Luthès’ was not a mainstream paper, but a frantic rush to find the sold-out copies began. This single piece of news caused a stir across the capital.
Ava Rossignol’s name was now mentioned in every gathering, and in name and deed, the most wicked woman in the Empire was no longer Freya Russell, but Ava Rossignol.
“My Lord, a letter for you from the Countess of Rossignol.”
Erle Tristan put down the newspaper and turned toward the elderly butler.
In the butler’s hand was a letter stamped with the seal of the Rossignol family. Erle took it and carelessly tore open the wax with a gold paper knife.