40.
Even Freya, who had braced herself for the sight, stood with her mouth slightly agape.
Milla, clutching the dress, watched her with an anxious expression. Freya slowly rose and moved to her side. Inside the box lay a pair of shoes, a headpiece that perfectly complemented the gown, and a message card.
Freya pulled out the card.
*Ever since reading the articles about the dramatic situation at the salon, Madam has taken over my head. White in the front but pitch-black in the back, the outlaw of the Grandcen aristocracy, Madam Mafia. To drape you in the color that suits you best, both Inès and I decided to take a risk. Wear my dress and shock the world once more. Your exclusive couturier, P. Charlo.*
Madam Mafia, she thought. Freya chuckled, then returned to her seat. The bewilderment vanished, replaced by a smile of pure satisfaction.
“With this, it’s certain. I shall stand out more than anyone else at the ball.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“Madam… I thought wrong earlier.”
Milla stood dazed, gazing at Freya as she stood before the large full-length mirror.
“This dress was truly a masterpiece made for you and you alone, Madam.”
Freya stood motionless. The servants surrounding her were equally spellbound, unable to tear their eyes from their mistress.
Knock, knock.
“Are you ready? It’s almost time to leave…”
Max entered the dressing room, but stopped in his tracks, his gaze locking onto Freya.
“Why, is it strange?” Freya asked, her nerves tightening.
It was a dress she had never worn before. Certainly, no such design had appeared among the options Paul Charlo had presented leading up to her twenty-fourth summer. Milla was too biased to offer an honest assessment, and the servants were likely the same.
Max’s opinion was the only one that mattered. She watched him, hoping for a word, but he remained silent, his gaze anchored to her.
“…Max?”
Her turquoise eyes, clear as a mountain lake, searched his face. Max looked at his wife for a long beat before speaking.
“Lorenzo, you may go.”
Max took a small box from the butler behind him. “And the rest of you, as well.”
At the command, the room emptied quickly.
“Is it really strange?”
Max approached the anxious woman. He placed the box on a small shelf beside the mirror, stepped behind her, and gently gripped her shoulders to turn her toward the glass. Freya obeyed, her eyes shifting to the reflection.
*Click.* The jewelry box opened.
Max lifted the piece inside, draping it around Freya’s neck. A gorgeous necklace of diamonds and emeralds settled against her long, slender throat. Ah, so this was the finishing touch. Her eyes rippled like water.
“Freya.”
At his low voice, she met his eyes in the mirror. Max leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder before trailing to the pulse point at her nape. The skin burned where he touched her.
Caught in his deep blue gaze, which seemed ready to devour her, Freya forgot to blink. Finally, he pressed his lips to her temple, his warm breath ghosting over her cheek.
“Freya Russell, you are the most beautiful flower tonight.”
✦ ✦ ✦
“Did you hear the Lady is attending today?”
“It’s her first Imperial ball; she must have gone to great lengths.”
The ballroom was already thick with aristocrats.
“Her first appearance since the incident, isn’t it? I wonder how triumphantly she’ll arrive.”
“Madam Rossignol won’t be attending, will she?” Someone brought up the current ‘hottest potato.’
“Unless she wants to be showered with wine by the other ladies, she wouldn’t dare.”
“More than that, I heard she’s quite occupied with the trial.”
“Ah, the secret divorce proceedings?”
The trial, held behind closed doors, was now an open secret in Luthes.
“I hear a verdict might be reached unusually quickly. Rumor has it she’s going to lose.”
“She must be heartbroken, poor Madam Rossignol.”
“The real problem starts after she loses. It would be a mercy if she isn’t sent off to a sanatorium.”
Even as they exchanged pleasantries, the ladies’ eyes scanned one another—comparing dresses, jewels, makeup, and fans—while pretending to look elsewhere.
Lily Bouchard was no exception. The more beautiful and fragrant the flower, the more the bees gathered. While the Empress was the unrivaled flower of the Imperial ball, being the second-most beautiful was enough to reign over the season’s social circle. Moreover, this was the night Lady Blanc—a woman as irritating as a thorn under a fingernail—would make her official debut.
Lily wrinkled her brow, remembering how Freya Russell had looked down on her at the department store. She had been unable to sleep for days, frustrated that the Solnie newspaper had dared to take the Lady’s side.
Lily sneered and snapped open her expensive fan.
“Mademoiselle Bouchard, you look beautiful today. Might I have the honor of a dance later?”
“Of course, Monsieur Berville.”
The ball had barely begun, but Lily, having already secured several dance requests, lifted her chin. The Lady might have used the Blanc family’s influence to force a marriage to Monsieur Russell and slandered Madam Rossignol with lies, but she would soon learn that the social world could not be swayed by mere family power.
Just then, the names of the Lady Blanc and her husband echoed from the entrance.
The room fell silent as all eyes, Lily’s included, turned. The couple stepped into the ballroom.
A silence ill-suited for such a lavish affair descended. In the strange stillness, one could almost hear the soft rustle of fabric dragging across the floor.
Black organza spread like a flower in full bloom. The lustrous material narrowed, wrapping around her hips and clinging to her torso like a second skin. Beneath the thin black veil of the fabric, her slim waist and the curves rising from it were revealed with startling, visceral clarity.
Black. Among the bouquet of colorful gowns, black had long been the exclusive domain of men—a neutral backdrop to make the flowers stand out. No woman would dare wear it. Had anyone other than the Lady arrived in such a dress, they would have been an instant laughingstock.
But here, no one could mock Freya Blanc.
The dress shone with a brilliance that defied expectations. Embedded in the spreading organza, melee diamonds caught the light, increasing in density as they traveled up the curves of her body. Like a galaxy of stars, the crystals reflected the chandeliers in every direction. Against her snow-white skin, the emerald-and-diamond necklace glowed with cold, regal fire.
No one could look away. Even with their eyes closed, the image of Freya Blanc remained branded on their retinas. For a moment, the presence of Max Russell was entirely forgotten.
*The Queen of the Night.* Lily thought, dazed.
‘Is that… is that the same Freya Blanc who was mocked for being obsessed with her husband?’
Before the shock could fade, an announcement of the Imperial family’s arrival cut through the air. As if waking from a dream, the guests hurriedly averted their gazes.
The doors at the top of the stairs opened, and the true protagonists appeared: the Empress, followed by the Imperial Princess and the Crown Prince.
The Empress was dazzling. Her golden crinoline dress spread wider than any other, a testament to her authority. A tiara set with a thousand diamonds rested upon her reddish-blonde hair.
The timing was perfect.
Freya, standing at the entrance like the night sky, and the Empress, positioned at the seat of honor like the sun, faced one another across the expanse of the room.
And everyone watching knew—tonight, there was more than one greatest flower in the ballroom.