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“I heard that in Orturan, marriage is a transaction. There must have been something exchanged between you and my father. Then why do you treat me not as the result of a transaction, but as a punishment from heaven? As if you were scammed rather than making a deal.”
Once the sudden burst of anger passed, nothing remained but miserable ashes.
Rose could feel the strength draining from her voice.
The man remained silent for a long time, despite the questions pouring out like debts.
It was as if he were contemplating something.
Was he wondering what words would hurt her the most?
She thought she saw something flicker across his face—a face that had been terrifyingly calm—but it happened so quickly she couldn't be sure.
“Mrs. Crawford.”
Finally, a title flowed from him—one far too distant for someone addressing his own wife.
“Not every transaction in the world ends as a perfect win-win. Some transactions are necessary, but they create someone who is relatively disadvantaged.”
Ray spoke much slower than usual, as if dealing with a deficient child.
“No matter how ignorant you are, you cannot claim that this marriage is a great benefit to me.”
As Rose tried to open her mouth to speak, Ray raised his hand again to lightly stop her.
“Ask your father. Even Mr. Davis would admit that I am taking a loss to some extent. I am merely demanding your complete cooperation as compensation for that loss.”
Complete cooperation.
Rose knew exactly what those words meant.
He was telling her to actively erase her existence.
Her thoughts, her emotions, everything.
But she was already doing that. To erase herself any further, she would practically have to stop breathing.
“That’s why I told you, I’m doing my best. But how can a person endure everything every single time—”
“I don’t know if that’s considered 'doing one's best' in Bolton, but it isn't in Orturan.”
Ray cut her off before she could finish, a rare hint of irritation evident in his voice.
“Good grief. Why are you so incapable of understanding?”
Rose clenched her fists at the look in his eyes, which suggested he was driven mad by the mere nuisance of her existence. She no longer had a brush to grip and put her strength into.
“I have been telling you this all along. This is not Bolton, but Orturan, and Orturan has its own rules. Here, your feelings are not important, nor is there any need to express them.”
That her feelings, what she felt, mattered not at all.
That simply because she was a Boltonian, she was to be this man's eternal debtor and deserved to be insulted.
Even within the house of Crawford, which had now become her own surname.
Ray was not wrong.
In Orturan, no one could be on Rose's side. Not even her husband.
“Since anyone can see you are ignorant of it, is it such an unreasonable request to tell you to follow the words of someone who knows better? I don't see it that way at all.”
The man who was her husband finished speaking without hiding his annoyance and rose from the sofa.
“Never.”
From the way he emphasized every single syllable, she could tell how disgusted he was by her presence.
“I hope we never have to have a conversation like this again, Mrs. Crawford.”
Leaving those words as his final remark, Ray Crawford left Rose's bedroom without a shred of regret.
Rose stood still for a long while after Ray left, before collapsing onto the vanity chair.
She didn't even have the strength to make it to the bed.
Because Rose had spent all her energy today on not crying.
That's enough.
Rose murmured vacantly.
Knowing it was a meaningless consolation for her tattered heart, she told herself repeatedly that it was enough, that this meant she hadn't lost.
* * *
The next morning, the Crawford household was greeted by a large photograph of Rose on the front page of the Daily Oakley Review.
In the photo, Rose was sitting at an outdoor table of a cafe in Bolton, smoking a cigarette.
<The Minister's Wife Still Living in Bolton>
Ray chuckled as he looked at the headline of the newspaper, which the head butler had brought directly to his bed in shock.
He wasn't surprised.
He had figured they would use this eventually.
<In Bolton, women smoke. It is not surprising. Is it not a country where people eat things they shouldn't?
Bolton is a country where the boundary between what is permissible and what is forbidden is blurred.>
The article was highly aggressive from the very beginning.
Though it was his personal opinion, Ray thought the photo of Rose was strikingly beautiful. Looking at this photo, the newspaper's claim that smoking was not something a woman should do seemed entirely unconvincing.
It was a photo that made one want to smoke a cigarette first thing in the morning.
Shouldn't they have picked a photo where the woman looked a bit uglier? Then again, with that face, it would be hard to look ugly.
Ray indifferently recalled the face of his wife, which everyone admired.
Over the black-and-white image, the sight of the woman raging wildly last night overlapped.
In all his life, he had never seen a woman—or a person—lose their reason like that. How could someone be so utterly devoid of propriety?
It was the most shocking sight he had witnessed recently.
“That son of a bitch.”
A curse word typically used by men with loose tongues had burst from that tiny woman, who barely reached his chest.
Even though the night had passed, the image was still excessively vivid. As if she were right in front of him even now.
Her always pale face had flushed red with heat, and her chest, wrapped in a snow-white nightgown, rose and fell with every breath she took to steady herself.
It was a side of her completely different from what he had known.
It was strange that he could feel she was indeed a living human being through such an inappropriate display. The woman breathed... and moved.
At least in a woman who raged like that, there was no longer any trace of the complacency or leisure of someone ignoring a barking dog.
Along with anger, a subtle sense of satisfaction welled up at that fact.
Ray erased the image of the flushed woman and began reading the newspaper again.
<However, Orturan is different from Bolton. Does the Minister Crawford's wife truly understand this point?
According to this publication's investigation, at a rare event she attended—it is said she hardly shows her face—she made several inappropriate remarks.
According to a certain assemblyman, she advocated for the lawless strikes taking place in Bolton. Such remarks from the Minister's wife could have a negative impact on the consecutive strikes occurring in Marilyn...>
The fact that Rose had not expressed any particular opinion regarding the Bolton strikes had been disguised as "advocating" for them.
Even low-quality lies like this?
Ray clicked his tongue quietly.
While he didn't want to agree with his unpleasant wife, Archibald Avery was indeed a 'son of a bitch' beyond excuse. Though inappropriate, it was an impeccably accurate expression.
Seeing that Avery had gone as far as blatant fabrication typical of yellow journalism, Ray could guess how severe the insult Avery felt must have been.
The next few days will be tiring.
Just as he was about to close the newspaper, the bedroom door swung open.
Ray watched without much agitation as Agatha burst into her son's bedroom. Her face was pale.
For a mother who remained composed even when shells fell during the war to be this startled—this marriage truly was something.
It would have been unimaginable in the past, but since Rose became a Duchess, such occurrences had become frequent at the Crawford estate.
For instance, Agatha, who hated raising her voice even in front of servants, would scream in front of invited guests, or perform the uncouth act of barging into her son's bedroom.
“I’ve been seeing a lot of new sides of you lately, Mother. It’s refreshing.”
At Ray's words, Agatha froze for a moment, as if her secret had been exposed.
Her son had a talent for criticizing others as if he were joking. Since he took after her, Agatha knew this better than anyone.
Agatha thought that feeling a reproach in Ray's soft tone might be her own persecution complex, but she reacted sharply nonetheless.
“...Did you, did you know that girl...”
Agatha couldn't even bring herself to finish the sentence.
“Did you know she was a smoker?”
Her whispering voice was cautious, as if she were speaking of something unspeakable.
“Don't worry, I've made her quit. You know better than anyone, Mother, that she hasn't smoked once in Orturan.”
“And you knew all that and still!”
Agatha's voice rose at Ray's nonchalant reaction.
“You also knew that she worked as a piano teacher to earn money, didn't you?”
“I believe I heard something to that effect. That she earned some money while also working as an accompanist.”
“How could she hide such a thing! Are there other things she didn't tell me? Tell me the flaws of that girl.”
“If I tell you,”
Ray sighed lightly, gently placing the newspaper on the nightstand.
“What difference does it make if you find out now? If I had recited a list of how many defects she had, would you have opposed the marriage?”
Agatha could not answer.
“Of course I investigated. Did you think I would marry without any preparation, not knowing what kind of woman she was? If she had been at an unacceptable level, I wouldn't have cared if you went on a hunger strike or crossed the Tess River.”
At the barrage of criticism delivered in a flat, toneless voice, Agatha's face turned pale.
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