Chapter 4
At that moment, as if a princess released from a curse, the young noblewoman’s cheeks flushed a deep, vivid red. It was a reaction so intense it was hard to believe she was only eight years old, especially given the look of utter boredom she had worn just moments before.
Expressions began to surface on the girl’s face, which had previously been as vacant as a doll’s. Surprise, joy, shyness… and with a glimmer of newfound anticipation, she looked up at Max and gently rested her hand upon his.
When Max led her to the library window, a lovely smile bloomed across the child’s face, as if a flower bud were unfurling in the sun.
That day, the game of “Finding the Lady” didn’t end until the other children grew tired and lost interest. Eventually, the servants, acting under the orders of Duke Blanc, discovered the young lady and the boy hidden tightly together in a chapel far from the main castle.
Watching the furious Duke and the trembling Russell couple beside him, the young noblewoman made her declaration.
“Father, this boy is my prince. I have decided to marry Max.”
And just like that, Max Russell, who had kidnapped the girl on a momentary impulse—or perhaps out of pity—became the prince of the Blanc Ducal family’s only daughter.
If he had truly been a prince, this first encounter might have become a romantic memory that the two, once married, would look back upon with fondness. But in reality, Max Russell was nothing more than a puppet, forced by a father blinded by the wealth and power of the ducal family to play the part of a polite and kind fiancé.
That was their first misfortune.
“Sir?”
The soft murmur beside him pulled Max from his bitter thoughts.
It was Milla, Freya’s personal maid, who had called out to him. She was holding a tray with a glass of white wine and a plate of fruit, presumably prepared for Freya.
Milla, already wearing a look of surprise, froze in place, unable to utter a word as Max took the wine and the fruit plate from her hands.
*Go.* With just the movement of his lips, Max gestured for her to leave before approaching Freya.
“Milla, thank you. Just set them on the table there.”
Perhaps catching the scent of fruit that had permeated the room, Freya spoke without taking her eyes off her book.
It wasn’t until Max had placed the glass and plate on the table and taken a seat on the adjacent sofa that Freya realized he was there.
Looking up belatedly, Freya’s mouth fell open in a daze.
“…Max? What brings you all the way here?”
Feeling an inexplicable irritation at her reaction—as if he were an unwelcome guest who had suddenly barged in—Max opened his mouth.
“It seems you had some trouble with Mother.”
“Ah… yes, I did.”
Freya nodded readily and asked again.
“Is that why you came?”
*Did you really have to?* The words she left unsaid were plain in her expression.
To think Freya Russell would be unwelcoming to him. Max studied his wife, who felt like a completely different person since yesterday, and spoke again.
“What did you talk to Mother about?”
He had come all this way just to ask this. A reason so flimsy, even by his own admission.
Max had to acknowledge the truth: when his mother had discussed Freya’s mental state and hinted at institutionalization, he had felt a surge of anger.
That was why he had gone out of his way to see her face, doing something he usually never would. The expression Max had unconsciously softened upon entering the study began to harden.
Perhaps misunderstanding the shift in his expression, Freya answered in a slightly hurried tone.
“It was nothing major. Mother wanted to use my dowry to open a salon in her name, and I simply refused.”
Though she spoke with an indifferent look, as if it were truly nothing, Max was not satisfied with the answer.
Come to think of it, since their marriage, she had craved his attention with every fiber of her being whenever they met. Yet, she had never once complained about the problems or difficulties she faced within the mansion. Even his mother had always claimed everything was fine until she showed up at his office today.
If only Freya had spoken of these realistic hardships, he wouldn’t have been able to dismiss her so callously. But she hadn’t. Love—it was always that wretched love that passed through her lips.
In such a situation, no sooner had the talk of divorce arisen than his mother had come to him, exposing the conflict she had hidden all this time. And it was a conflict of significant magnitude.
“You were the one who insisted on a two-year condition for the divorce and keeping it a secret until then.”
Now that the topic of divorce had been raised, it was only natural to refuse his mother’s demand to fund her salon. Yet, Max could not shake the suspicion that his wife had intentionally blown the situation out of proportion.
“What are you planning? Surely you don’t intend to pin the conflict with my mother on me to stop the divorce.”
Under current imperial law, divorce was divided into consensual divorce and judicial divorce. However, the kind of divorce people commonly thought of was only the consensual kind.
Consensual divorce took, at shortest, two or three weeks, and at longest, no more than two months. But a judicial divorce took at least ten years. In cases where both parties were at fault, there were even instances where the divorce claim would be dismissed after that long period of litigation.
So, her husband was suspecting that Freya was acting as if she wanted a consensual divorce while actually preparing to drag it into the courts.
Sharp wariness, cold anger, and the deep-seated weariness hidden behind them. The emotions that had filled her husband’s eyes whenever he looked at her since last year began to settle in once more. Freya swallowed a sigh.
Those who live only one life would not know.
How even the smallest change—for instance, changing a single word in a conversation—can drastically twist the path ahead.
And that there are times when one must attempt a change, even at the risk of such danger.
Making the discord with his mother visible today was a necessary choice to prevent their future relationship from worsening further due to Mathilde Russell’s machinations.
Though it seemed it only served as an excuse for her husband, who had suffered from his wife’s tyranny for too long, to doubt her sincerity. But what could she do? It was all distrust and hostility accumulated from what she had done over the past five years.
Freya feigned indifference, hiding her bitter heart, and dismissed his suspicion.
“Max, as you know, if I were against this divorce, you would never be able to divorce me even without resorting to such petty tricks.”
“Then, was it just a coincidence that Mother came to find me today?”
“I simply told Mother that it didn’t matter if she spoke to you. It’s just… I’ve grown tired of living the way I am now.”
At Freya’s answer, the warmth vanished from Max’s face for a moment. What returned was pure cynicism.
“…That’s a statement that doesn’t suit a lady who has held everything she ever wanted in her hands her whole life.”
At his self-deprecating remark—referring to himself as one of the many things she had held in her hands—Freya lowered her gaze, hiding her trembling fingertips.
Soon, a smile mirroring his own cynicism appeared on her face.
“It may not suit me, but I have no choice. Because this is my true heart.”
It was true. Freya truly did not want to live like this anymore. She knew all too well what lay at the end of it. However…
If she told him that the past five years with her had been a hell of suffering for him, but in truth, it had been the same for her as well… would he be a little happy, or would he sneer, telling her not to complain about a hell she brought upon herself?
*Stop it.* Any self-pity was a luxury. Freya forced the corners of her mouth up and spoke.
“Max, I know it’s hard for you to trust me, given the mistakes I’ve made.”
Walking into the bedroom while completely naked to pounce on her sleeping husband was, in retrospect, rather mild.
Groundless suspicion devours a person.
When she thought of her husband—who shunned the duties of their wedding night and was no longer the affectionate man he once was—holding another woman in a place she didn’t know, offering a smile so mesmerizing it made one forget to breathe, just as he once had for her—Freya would tremble with anxiety all day, struggling to even swallow a sip of water.
It was Mathilde Russell who had planted that anxiety, but it was she herself who had hired people to stalk Max, monitoring his every move and investigating the backgrounds of the women he met.
And then, she had eventually crossed a line that should never have been crossed…
So, it was only natural that Max wouldn’t trust her based on words alone.
“It is my duty to make you able to trust my proposal.”
Rising from her seat, Freya went to a drawer in the corner of the study and returned with paper and writing utensils.
“So, let’s write a contract.”
“A contract?”
“A divorce contract. For today, I’ll draft the initial version, and you can edit and finalize it. After that, if we go to the Imperial Notary together to have it notarized, you’ll be able to trust me, right?”
Watching Freya, who had spread the paper on the table with a bold face, Max was momentarily lost for words.
He wondered if she was just saying it to test him, but the Freya sitting across from him looked perfectly earnest. And that made it all the more bizarre.