CWMBR 118

Chapter 118

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Mrs. Hera, who had been silent while clutching her dress tightly, opened her mouth with a subdued expression.

"Come to think of it, that's what you wrote in the letter."

<Please bestow the lady's noble friendship upon someone worthy.>

Mrs. Hera recited the sentence Bridget had written at the end of the letter and stared at her.

"So we should build friendship even in the same predicament?"

A faint, lingering resentment remained in her voice. Bridget knew it was the other woman's pride. So she shook her head without hesitation.

"No, that wasn't my intention."

Mrs. Hera wasn't exactly Donna's patron, but they were something like companions. She was a good source for introductions to high-end cosmetics, useful items beyond just the dress shop, and someone who casually handed out expensive gifts. Mrs. Hera's gifts were also easy to cash in, so Donna often sold them off when she needed quick cash.

Bridget had simply chosen the word 'friendship' to describe it. At least, that seemed to be the vague sentiment Mrs. Hera held.

Mrs. Hera was probably just one of the many people who had casually consumed the articles about the Wise couple's discord. Accepting that the gossip she'd discussed as if it were someone else's business had now become her own situation couldn't have been easy. Much less readily admit that she now found herself in the very position she had once looked down upon.

"That sentence means exactly what it says. There's no hidden intent."

She hoped it might make the other feel indebted, but that wasn't her aim for future useful exchanges. Facing Mrs. Hera, who regarded her with eyes full of suspicion, Bridget explained matter-of-factly.

"I don't believe this matter gives me any grounds to demand anything of you, madam."

Mrs. Hera fell silent. Whether she was gathering her surging emotions or simply deep in thought, she kept her gaze lowered for a long while.

Only when Bridget's cup was nearly empty did Mrs. Hera finally lift her head. Having somewhat sorted her thoughts, she still wore a sad, melancholy expression, but the moisture that had threatened to spill over had now dried up. In a dry voice, she asked.

"Is there anything more you can give me?"

"I have nothing to give you, but..."

Bridget, who had been fingering the empty glass, cautiously began to speak.

"I don't know if what I say will help you, Madam. I found the letter inside the dressmaker's envelope."

Mrs. Hera raised her eyebrows as if questioning the meaning. Bridget chose not to meet her eyes directly.

In truth, saying it was found inside the dressmaker's envelope was only half accurate. While it was true the love letter had been secretly placed in the envelope for delivery, it had been handed to Bridget long ago.

Donna, beloved by many, was someone who wouldn't even glance at the sordid advances of a married man. If the businessman had been socially prominent, things might have been different. But, for better or worse, though wealthy and successful, he wasn't the kind of man who could satisfy Donna's lofty standards. Moreover, he showed no sign of wanting to break up his marriage.

If she had no interest, she could have simply rejected the businessman's advances outright. But apparently, she didn't want to do that either.

After that first love letter, whenever she visited the dress shop, Donna's envelope contained another one from the businessman. Sometimes it held a thinly pressed flower or a sparkling ring.

Judging by Donna's dismissive attitude toward these gifts, the businessman's love letters were likely just a minor means of feeding her sense of superiority.

"The dates Donna visited the dress shop should be easily verifiable at the store, correct?"

"Dates?"

"I understand your husband frequently gives gifts to you."

"Ah."

Mrs. Hera's eyes widened. Her lashes fluttered as she gritted her teeth and muttered.

"I understand."

Mrs. Hera, who had been gritting her teeth to suppress her anger, suddenly furrowed her brow with concern and spoke.

"To anyone else………………”

"I haven't told anyone. And I don't intend to tell anyone in the future either."

If simply keeping the secret meant she could owe Mrs. Hera a debt of gratitude, what better bargain could there be?

"You probably won't believe me, but it's true."

"I believe you."

Bridget looked up, slightly startled by the curt reply. Mrs. Hera avoided Bridget's gaze and snapped back.

"You said it was from experience. So I believe you."

"Then that's a relief."

Recalling how Bridget had been thrown to the wolves by those who arrived earlier and torn apart by all manner of speculation, did Mrs. Hera feel even a shred of sympathy? Whatever the case, Mrs. Hera's hostility had indeed subsided, and Bridget chose to take this as a positive sign.

Mrs. Hera's tea, untouched throughout their conversation, had already grown lukewarm. Bridget had assumed she wouldn't drink it at all, but Mrs. Hera picked up her cup and gulped it down in one go. Emptying the cup in a single breath, she flipped her hood over her head and sprang to her feet.

"I'll be going now."

Just as Mrs. Hera turned to leave, she suddenly looked back at Bridget. Eyes beneath the hood stared intently at Bridget.

"Thank you."

Watching the woman's slender back sway as if she might collapse at any moment, Bridget guessed she probably wouldn't choose divorce. Mrs. Hera was someone who proudly flaunted her harmonious relationship with her husband and had been active in society. For the sake of the dignity and reputation she had maintained all this time, she would likely show little outward sign. Wasn’t that how the lives of aristocrats were supposed to be?

Yet, surprisingly, news broke a few days later that Mrs. Hera had filed for divorce from her husband.

Only after reading the newspaper did Jane and Wayna realize the unfamiliar visitors who had come recently were Mrs. Hera and her maid. They marveled at the revelation with expressions of astonishment.

After confirming the news of Mrs. Hera's divorce suit in the paper, Bridget murmured with a calm expression.

"Better than me."

***

At some point, Ain began going out alone on sudden whims. Since he ventured out without a single attendant, Declan had no idea where he was going or coming from.

He wasn't a child; what harm could come from him going out alone? Neither Declan nor anyone else in the office paid any mind to Ain's behavior.

At first, that was.

Ain went out more regularly than expected. Where on earth was he going? Sometimes dirt stained his trouser hems, or blades of grass clung to his coat. But the biggest question mark of all was...

"I hear you've been buying up abandoned houses lately."

The moment Ain entered the office, Declan, who had been hot on his heels, fired off the question he'd been waiting to ask. Ain, taking off his coat, didn't even glance back at Declan as he replied curtly.

"Yeah."

A faint smell of water wafted from Ain as he stepped into the office.

Water? Where on earth had he been this time?

A new question arose, but Declan decided to hear the answer to his first question first. If nothing else, the looks on the faces of Iliont and Fergus, sitting in the corner of the office, demanded it. Those pleading, teary eyes were desperately urging Declan on.

Ain suddenly started spending money.

Well, spending money was Ain's profession to begin with. But this time felt different.

From some point onward, sales contracts began piling up in front of Iliont and Fergus. Ain would toss them down after returning from outings.

If it had been just one or two, they might have shrugged it off. But this... this was piling up abnormally fast. Iliont and Fergus couldn't help but be puzzled. What on earth was he buying all this for?

It hardly seemed like an investment. The things Ain bought had no practical use whatsoever, and they certainly didn't have a bright future. The only common thread they could find? They were all junk.

The two men, who usually just followed orders unless absolutely necessary, couldn't contain their curiosity any longer and asked Ain about the meaning behind this. But the only response they got was a cold command to fix up the things he'd bought so they looked presentable. He showed absolutely no intention of explaining any purpose behind his actions.

Thus, the aides turned to Declan for help. They wanted to understand why their boss was throwing money down the drain, why he was suddenly assigning the already overworked aides to renovate abandoned houses.

Seeing the aides' pitiful, exasperated expressions, Declan gladly stepped in. Truth be told, he was curious too.

"What kind of new money-wasting scheme is this?"

Even though he deliberately called it wasteful instead of an investment, no real counter argument came back. It meant even Ain admitted this was wasteful.

Was this a ploy?

Declan tilted his head, his expression ambiguous. Could this guy be trying to cure his melancholy with reckless spending? Just as Declan narrowed his eyes, about to say something, Ain spoke in an indifferent tone.

"It's gloomy."

"Gloomy?"

"Yeah, just looking at it makes me feel like ghosts will cling to me."

"………………What the hell are you talking about?"

Since when did Ain start caring about ghosts?