6

Freya

Ridiculous. Who would seduce a stud horse?

"I didn't." My expression remained calm, without a trace of guilt.

"You—"

"Tracy." Kelan cut her off, his face already darkening. He looked at me, voice dropping low. "Is this true?"

"Of course not." I met his gaze without flinching. "Kelan, I was fixing my appearance in the restroom. Mr. Field walked in by mistake. We barely exchanged words. I didn't strike anyone."

Something flashed across Kelan's face. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the guests who'd begun leaning in to listen, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He was weighing his options—I knew he wasn't thinking about who was right or wrong, but about where his dignity would land if this continued.

"These matters can be settled by checking the surveillance." He spoke slowly, though the pressure in his gaze as it settled on me silently conveyed a message: he was willing to side with me this once, but if I disappointed him, the consequences would be ugly.

If they checked the surveillance, even better. I forcibly suppressed the smile tugging at my lips.

Field's reaction came slightly faster than I'd expected, though he remained a fool.

The instant the word "surveillance" landed, his expression froze momentarily—just for a second, barely noticeable, but I stood at exactly the right angle to catch it. He must have remembered—there were no cameras inside the restroom. He'd probably known this all along, which was why he'd followed me in so brazenly, thinking no one would know what he did to me, thinking I couldn't fight back at all.

But he'd forgotten one thing: the corridor had cameras. The hallway surveillance pointed at the restroom entrance. The entire time before I went in, he'd followed me like a stalker and even harassed me—all recorded crystal clear on video. It wasn't me harassing him. It was him chasing me inside, him cornering me in that narrow space, his hand circling my waist.

He was the one in the wrong. The shameful one was him.

Field's gaze drifted, landing on Kelan's face, then on several nearby guests still listening. His Adam's apple bobbed. He lifted a hand to touch his temple, changed his tone, laughed once, and said airily, "...Forget it. Maybe I misunderstood. Everyone, carry on. Such a trivial matter—let's drop it."

He spoke as if it were a joke not worth mentioning.

Tracy wouldn't let it go. Her voice rose sharply, tears already clinging to her lashes. "Field, tell me—what exactly did you two do in that restroom? Did she seduce you? Why won't you dare check the surveillance?"

"Tracy, you're overthinking this. I said let it go." A trace of impatience crept into Field's tone.

"You're protecting her!"

With those words, the surrounding area fell completely silent.

The ballroom's buzz seemed muted, as if someone had pressed pause. The nearest circle of people stopped moving. Some turned around. Others pretended not to hear while straining their ears. Some shifted half a step closer with drinks in hand. The crystalline chandelier illuminated every face with merciless clarity, leaving nowhere to hide.

Tracy's tears finally fell. Her chin lifted slightly, lashes trembling, makeup unsmudged—as if carefully staged. But in those eyes, beyond the grievance, something else lurked—sharp and pointed directly at me.

"Freya," she called my name directly, her voice broken yet loud enough for everyone in the space to hear, "you like him, don't you? You've always liked him!"

Honestly, I had to admire that brain of hers—truly astounding. How did she manage to empty out everything else and reserve every inch of space for him?

Field had clearly shown his guilt. The problem was obviously his. Yet she'd transformed Field's evasiveness into my crime. I looked at her, at that tear at the corner of her eye, at that self-righteous grievance on her face. I knew she wasn't defending herself—she was using this opportunity to dump all her accumulated suspicions onto me at once, making everyone think I owed her something.

"The surveillance is here!" A gentleman called out, eyes full of schadenfreude.

Field's face turned ugly. He shook off Tracy's hand and made to leave. But now we were surrounded by the crowd, and with the matter still unresolved, he had no way to break through the human circle.

Tracy rushed to watch, her expression growing uglier with each passing second.

In the footage, Field was consumed with lust. He'd harassed me. Anyone with half a brain could see I was the victim.

The next second, she shot me a vicious glare, charged straight at me, and raised her hand to slap me. I certainly wasn't going to take it—I dodged sideways.

"You bitch! You seduced my fiancé!" Tracy cursed openly, all pretense of ladylike decorum abandoned.

Apparently I'd overestimated her intelligence. Even with reality laid bare before her, Field remained blameless in her eyes.

"That doesn't seem right. The surveillance clearly shows Field pestering your sister. You're being completely unreasonable." A noblewoman spoke up for me after watching the footage.

I looked over, gratitude in my eyes, and curtsied to her.

"Tracy."

This time, White spoke.

I didn't know when he'd approached. He stood at the crowd's edge holding a glass of whiskey, expression unchanged. He glanced at the guests still craning their necks for the spectacle and sighed, as if facing a group of unruly children.

"Tonight's been a lovely evening." His voice was unhurried. "Why let a small misunderstanding ruin it all? Wouldn't you agree, Kelan?"

As head of the household, naturally it fell to Kelan to end this farce.

"You're quite right." Kelan bowed slightly, smiling.

The crowd gradually dispersed. Murmurs lingered in corners for a while, but the surface disturbance had settled.

Tracy still stood in place, tears unwept, as if the resolution was too light to swallow, unsure how to continue the scene. Field gently tugged her arm and whispered something. She turned her face away, drew a deep breath, and finally left with him. Before going, she cast one final look my way—an expression impossible to define except as hatred, the kind of hatred one woman reserves for another, specific yet sourceless.

I remained where I stood, keeping my shoulders relaxed, hand lightly holding the champagne flute that had long gone cold.

My chest felt tight—not from fear, not from grievance, but from something indefinable held back, heavy like a stone pressed somewhere with no corner to set it down.

I lifted my eyes and instinctively glanced upward.

On the upper gallery, the lighting was dim amber. Someone leaned against the railing, holding a glass, posture lazy, looking down from above like watching a play whose ending was already known.

Leopold.