43.
The ball lasted until late into the night, but Freya and Max departed earlier than planned.
Freya, unaccustomed to the social demands of high society, had been drained by the relentless stream of dance requests from eager gentlemen. Max, having played the part of the doting husband until the very last moment, fell into a heavy, impenetrable silence the moment they stepped inside the carriage.
Freya felt a pang of concern for her husband’s mercurial mood, yet she was too exhausted to probe. She leaned her head back against the velvet seat, closing her eyes as the carriage rolled quietly toward the Russell estate.
When she opened her eyes, the carriage had already stopped. She blinked, disoriented, and looked at Max.
“How long have we been here?”
“Not long.”
Max’s voice was sunken, echoing hollowly in the small space. He reached out a hand, and guided by his touch, they entered the house, where the butler and Milla were waiting to greet them.
“Thank you for today.”
Freya offered the words to Max before turning toward her room with Milla.
“…Yeah.”
“Good night, Max.”
Whether out of exhaustion or something else, Max turned away without a reply. Watching his retreating figure, Freya felt a strange, lingering sense of loss.
“Madam?”
“Ah, yes. Let’s go.”
Freya walked a few paces before stopping abruptly. Her mind remained snagged on Max’s cold silence. After a moment, she signaled for Milla to wait and made her way toward Max’s bedroom. She drew a steadying breath and knocked.
Silence. Had he fallen asleep already? It wouldn’t be a surprise; the ballroom had been as stifling for him as it had been for her.
*Perhaps it’s for the best,* she thought.
Just as she turned to leave, the bedroom door clicked open behind her.
“What is it?”
Max stood in the doorway, his tailcoat still on, though he had discarded his outer coat.
“Ah, I had something I wanted to ask.”
Max looked down at her and stepped aside, allowing her entry. A sharp, medicinal scent of alcohol wafted from him. Freya hesitated, then stepped inside.
A half-empty bottle of liquor and a glass with melting ice sat on the corner table. Max walked toward it, retrieved the glass, and gestured for her to speak.
“Ask.”
“…You seemed to be in a bad mood. Did something happen at the Imperial Palace?”
*Clink.* The ice cubes collided against the glass in his hand. He swirled the amber liquid, his gaze fixed on her.
“Is that why you came to see me in that attire?”
“What… are you talking about?”
Max closed the distance between them with slow, predatory steps.
“Did you come to personally comfort me because I looked like I was in a bad mood, Your Grace?”
His hand brushed against her small, bare shoulder. Despite his taunting tone, his blue eyes were submerged in a dark, roiling intensity. Freya trembled, forcing a pained smile.
“Max, you’re drunk. I’ll leave now. Get some rest.”
“Isn’t this what you were hoping for when you came here?”
He knew. If she were the woman she had once been, perhaps, but the woman standing before him now possessed a different resolve. Yet, he couldn’t stop. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist, pulling her flush against him as he pressed his lips to the snow-white skin of her nape.
“Was there no mention of marital duties in what you spoke of?”
Freya went still, her head bowed. Perhaps it was the influence of the alcohol, but her skin felt cold beneath his touch. Just as he instinctively tightened his grip to pull her into a deeper embrace, she lifted her head, meeting his gaze.
“I want it.”
She smiled as if she were on the verge of tears.
“But not like this.”
She reached up, gently uncurling his fingers from her waist. She held his hand with such reverence, as if it were a fragile relic, and spoke with an earnest, desperate intensity.
“I want our first night to be perfect. Perfect enough to never be forgotten.”
She released his hand.
“So… not tonight.”
Good night, Max. She turned away, distancing herself from him.
“What did you talk about with the Marquis?”
The question escaped him before he could check it—a product of his inability to let her leave like that. Freya paused and looked back.
She hadn’t intended to bring it up, not tonight. But his intoxication and her imminent departure had collided, forcing the doubt that had haunted him throughout the ballroom out into the open.
“Are you planning to go to him once we divorce?”
“…What?”
She couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words, wishing she hadn’t heard them at all. But her husband repeated the question, trampling on the remnants of her hope.
“Are you thinking of going to Erle Tristan?”
All emotion drained from Freya’s face. Her eyes, beautiful yet lifeless as a fine porcelain doll, drifted downward.
The day had been a triumph.
Unlike her previous life, she had successfully established her footing in high society, dismantling the narrative people held of her. She was certain the Empress would summon her to the Imperial Palace soon after seeing her attire. She had honored her promises to Inès and Paul.
She had proved her sincerity, and the alliance with the Delaporte family was moving toward completion.
She had thought she’d done well. She had tried so hard.
*Could you ever know?* she thought. *That with a single word, you have turned this moment and this place into the most accursed hell.*
Just as the naive, ignorant Freya Blanc had once been, the twenty-five-year-old Max Russell had now torn her heart to shreds. Her heart, which she thought had long since withered, was being ripped open, black and necrotic blood leaking from the wounds.
On the day her marriage to the man who had executed her husband and sent her father to the guillotine was finalized, Freya Blanc had realized the truth.
What she was experiencing now was exactly what she had once inflicted upon Max.
She had needed to know why her husband had been forced to die before her eyes. She could neither live nor die until she understood the suffering he had endured in silence, which she alone had been blind to.
That was why, the moment she realized the hell she had consigned him to, she had surrendered her life.
And now, having repeated the cycle to reach this point, an ignorant Max Russell asked her if she intended to step into that same hell she had once bestowed upon him.
*Did the words I spoke back then, when I knew nothing, hurt you just as much?*
She blinked slowly, her eyes dry. She smiled at her husband with a weary, hollow expression.
“…Is that what you want me to do?”
Max did not answer. This time, Freya truly turned away. But his voice, raw and desperate, caught her at the threshold.
“Freya, what am I to you?”
Was it an illusion? He sounded like a man drowning. She didn’t turn back; she no longer had the courage to look at him. Standing with her back to him, she replied.
“Max Russell was… my everything.”
Good night, Max. Leaving the farewell behind like a soft, dying sigh, Freya left the room.
*Crazy bastard.* Max stood alone in the dark room and closed his eyes. The world spun. The image of her dancing with the Marquis, the smile she wore, and the sight of her retreating back—wounded by his own words—flickered in his mind like a fever dream.
He had believed everything would be resolved once they divorced. Now, he wasn’t even sure of that.
✦ ✦ ✦
Near dawn, a carriage slipped out of the Imperial Palace. As it navigated the deserted streets, it slowed to a halt, and a dark figure emerged from the shadows to board it.
“I did not expect you to use the information regarding Madam Rossignol in such a way. I apologize.”
“There is no reason for you to apologize for what that child did.”
The conversation continued in the gloom.
“Was there anything else different from usual?”
“They say that on their last wedding anniversary, they went out together, which was highly irregular for a Russell. And recently, she has been planning a business with a woman who ran a second-hand clothing store.”
His daughter had changed. The suspicion he had harbored in secret was confirmed when the lady of the Russell family had sought him out.
“The Duke did not approve of the marriage between my son and the Lady. He likely still harbors hope that they will separate. If I possess information that could be of use to the Duke, would you be willing to listen?”
The woman, who had exploited his opposition to the marriage to isolate his daughter and play mistress of the household, had demanded money without shame.
When he tossed her a pittance, she had spilled information that could have cost her own son’s life, her face filled with a sickening satisfaction.
“As you may know, the son and the Lady were not on good terms after the marriage. But their relationship has changed rapidly of late. It turns out they made some kind of promise. The Lady claimed she would ‘take my son away.’ They may be planning to leave together.”
*Take him away.* Mathilde Russell seemed to believe that his daughter and Max Russell were planning to elope, but Gaspard Blanc’s assessment was far more cynical.
The young Marquis, who had offered to determine how much the Lady truly knew, had sent this message:
“The Lady told me that he is a reliable person and that I should take good care of my husband.”
*Take good care of my husband.* A phrase a daughter might use, but if the target was the Marquis, the implications were vast.
To an ordinary noblewoman, it would have been a biting piece of sarcasm directed at a man who had threatened her.
“That child has always been a unique creature since she was young.”