"Welcome, Miss Montague!"
Juliet arrived at the banquet hall shortly after lunch the following day.
The luxurious hall was an annex to the imperial palace—a favorite gathering place for the capital's young elite. Crystal chandeliers dripped from vaulted ceilings, casting prismatic light across walls adorned with gilt mirrors and cascading arrangements of fresh flowers.
The moment Juliet appeared in the doorway, a ripple of movement passed through the room. Some of the young ladies rose from their seats with gleaming, predatory eyes and drifted toward her. Others leaned close to their neighbors, fans fluttering as they exchanged hurried whispers.
"I truly didn't expect her to show her face here…"
"Good heavens, what *impudence*!"
"No, just look at her—she has no shame whatsoever!"
"She can hear you! Perhaps speak more quietly?"
"Why should I? *Let* her hear."
As expected, the gossip began immediately—sharp and unrelenting as a swarm of wasps.
"Miss Montague! We've *all* heard the news about you and the Duke of Carlisle."
"It must have been terribly difficult for you. But are you managing now?"
"Oh, please—do tell us how things stand!"
"Yes, yes! It happened so unexpectedly!"
Juliet cast a cool, measured glance at the cluster of young women before her. She barely knew any of them—their faces were familiar only from passing encounters at previous events, their names already slipping from memory.
"……"
She offered no answers to their prying questions. Instead, she simply regarded them with a faint, enigmatic smile—one that only sharpened their curiosity.
Then, without a word, Juliet walked calmly through the crowd. She paid no attention to their poorly concealed displeasure, their rustling skirts parting reluctantly to let her pass. Her destination was the farthest table at the back of the salon, where she stopped before the hostess seated at its head.
"Thank you for the invitation, Your Highness."
She delivered the greeting with a broad, radiant smile.
"Oh…!"
The invitation Juliet had chosen from among the mountain of letters belonged to Fatima—an old friend who would soon become a princess through her engagement to the Crown Prince.
The hostess, however, seemed far less pleased to receive such a friendly greeting. Fatima's eyes darted away, refusing to meet Juliet's gaze, her fingers fidgeting nervously with the lace trim of her sleeve.
"Ah, but you haven't officially been accepted into the royal family yet, have you?" Juliet chuckled softly, inclining her head with exaggerated politeness.
"She will *definitely* become a princess next month!" snapped the young man seated beside Fatima, bristling with indignation.
"Yes, that's precisely why I'm here," Juliet replied smoothly, her eyes never leaving Fatima's averted face. She let the silence stretch for a deliberate moment before adding, "How could I possibly miss your very first blooming salon?"
---
Blooming salons had recently become wildly popular among the capital's youth, largely due to their unusual rules.
The concept was deceptively simple.
The salon's organizer could send invitations to only three people. Each recipient could then forward their invitation to three others. If everyone followed this rule, the number of guests would grow exponentially—like petals unfurling from a single bud.
But the system had one significant complication: multiple invitations could be sent to the same person, and no one knew in advance who might choose to invite whom. This created an intricate web of social connections and hidden alliances.
Additionally, because only three personal invitations could be sent by the organizer, the identities of those chosen few would inevitably be revealed—depending on who actually appeared.
Perhaps this was why Fatima had arranged such an elaborate event, even securing permission to use an extension of the Imperial Palace itself.
*Next spring I'll be a crowned princess, so I might need a space to cultivate personal connections.*
Juliet had known since last year that Fatima was eager to establish herself in society—that she wanted tonight's salon to be whispered about as a resounding success.
*But you made an unforgivable mistake,* Juliet thought as she settled into the seat indicated on her invitation—at the head table, no less.
Although it had been many years, Juliet still remembered that Fatima had once been her childhood friend. They had played together in sunlit gardens, shared secrets beneath canopies of wisteria, promised to stand by each other always.
And now, she couldn't help but wonder: *What kind of person uses an old friend's misfortune as bait to lure guests to her party?*
"……"
Even after several minutes passed, Fatima still refused to lift her head or meet Juliet's eyes.
No matter. Judging by the number of guests who had gathered—the hall was nearly full—the salon had achieved exactly the success Fatima had intended.
"So… how *are* you, Miss Montague?"
A young lady seated beside Juliet broke the momentary silence.
Juliet turned toward the speaker and found herself facing a multitude of eager, glittering eyes. From that moment, questions rained down upon her from every direction.
"We've all heard the story, so there's really no point in denying it," another young woman declared.
"His Grace the Duke of Carlisle personally announced the break with you, did he not?"
*So these were the rumors about their separation.*
They must have begun circulating after she failed to appear at the New Year's banquet.
"I knew this would happen from the very beginning." The first girl spoke again, her voice dripping with condescension. "And I recall you were warned more than once, Miss Montague. Surely you've *finally* awakened from your unrealistic hopes of becoming a duchess?"
Snide giggles rippled through the surrounding tables.
"But tell us—is the rumor true? Did you *really* beg the Duke of Carlisle on your knees not to cast you aside?"
At this question, every head turned toward her. Ears pricked. Eyes gleamed with barely concealed hunger.
Their gazes seemed to ask: *How could you humiliate yourself so completely after all that arrogance you showed us?*
"…Did I really do that?"
Juliet laughed—a cold, crystalline sound.
In truth, there was another reason she had come to this banquet today.
*It's time for the next step.*
Her gaze drifted toward the entrance.
And then—
"Presenting the godmother of high society—Duchess Ilena!"
"……"
*W-who… who just arrived…?*
Every person in the salon doubted their hearing.
As a relative of the Empress, Duchess Ilena was considered one of the most influential arbiters of taste and behavior in all of high society. She was renowned for her strictness, her unwavering conservatism, and her merciless judgment.
In other words, she was *not* the sort of woman who would personally attend an event beneath her status.
"Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that truly Duchess Ilena…?"
Guests leaped from their seats, astonished by the sight of the imposing lady who strode proudly into the hall. Her silver hair was swept back in an immaculate coiffure, and her posture was as straight and commanding as a general's.
"Who in the world invited *her*?"
"I did."
After speaking these words, Juliet rose calmly from her seat to greet the guest.
"I'm delighted you came, Duchess Ilena."
"……Yes, I'm pleased to see you as well, Juliet." The older woman's stern features softened almost imperceptibly. "It has been far too long."
The Duchess's sharp eyes traveled over Juliet from head to toe, examining every detail of her appearance.
"Hmm. Your presentation is simply superb."
"Thank you for the compliment. You look wonderful yourself," Juliet replied with a gracious smile.
As expected, the elegant formal dress she had chosen—with its high neckline and row of pearl buttons ascending to her throat—had pleased the old Duchess's conservative sensibilities.
In truth, this formidable woman had known Juliet since childhood, when she was still a little girl with skinned knees and tangled hair.
"Yes, it was a long time ago indeed." A rare warmth crept into Duchess Ilena's voice. "I still remember the days when I used to treat you to peppermint drops."
---
One of the young ladies, who had been carefully observing the old woman's expression, leaned close to Juliet and whispered:
"Um… Miss Montague, did you truly invite Duchess Ilena to the blooming salon?"
"Yes. Is something wrong?"
"Ah, but… our guests are usually all young people…"
"And? What is the problem?" Juliet tilted her head with an expression of perfect innocence. "This is a blooming salon. One may invite whomever one wishes."
She paused, letting her words settle.
"I received three invitations to forward, the same as everyone else. Isn't that the rule?"
Well, yes, that *was* the rule—but the problem lay with Duchess Ilena herself.
Everyone knew perfectly well that the godmother of high society could deliver scathing criticism to anyone whose attire or behavior failed to meet her exacting standards. A single disapproving comment from her lips could destroy a young lady's reputation for an entire season.
For this reason, the gathered youth now shifted uncomfortably, their earlier confidence wavering.
In truth, they had only been thinking about how to severely humiliate Juliet Montague—how to corner her in a crowded salon and tear her to pieces with their words. It had never occurred to them that she might use her own invitations as weapons.
Still, they were not overly concerned. Surely it didn't matter *who* Juliet had invited.
After all, just as it was well known that the Duke had abandoned her, it was equally well known that the old socialite disapproved of Juliet's scandalous decision to follow an unmarried man to the North—a man who had shown no intention of proposing or announcing an engagement.
"Now then, Miss Montague," one of the young women interjected, eager to steer the conversation back to more entertaining territory. "Let us return to our discussion—"
*Time to talk about the breakup again.*
"Oh my heavens—it's Countess Lavon!"
The announcement cut through the salon like a thunderclap. Young ladies scrambled to their feet at the arrival of yet another influential figure.
Meanwhile, Juliet approached the smiling newcomer to offer her greeting.
Countess Lavon was a striking woman with lustrous red hair that cascaded over her shoulders like autumn fire. She was renowned throughout the capital for her exceptional business acumen—and for the remarkable success she had achieved after separating from her incompetent husband several years prior.
Some time later, when Marchioness Farnese—another respected pillar of society—swept into the hall, the guests had ceased to be surprised. They simply stared, dumbfounded, as the three most powerful older women in the capital gathered around Juliet Montague like protective lionesses.
---
"…Are you quite certain Miss Montague was abandoned? That she truly *begged* him?"
The whispered question floated through the air—and was immediately caught by sharp ears.
"Who was abandoned? Who begged whom?" Duchess Ilena's voice cut through the murmur like a blade. "About *whom* are you gossiping?"
"Oh! Well, you see, there's been a rumor recently…" The young woman who had spoken faltered beneath the Duchess's piercing stare. "…that Miss Montague had her heart broken, and that she begged on her knees before the Duke's mansion, pleading with him not to leave her…"
"Who *dared* to invent such utter nonsense?!"
The old Duchess, who had been listening in composed silence, erupted with sudden fury. Her silver eyes blazed with righteous indignation.
At precisely that moment, Juliet—who had been gazing serenely out the window, her expression perfectly composed—blinked.
*Drip… drip…*
Two shimmering tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell upon her hands, folded demurely in her lap.
"Oh, heavens—my poor darling."
"Juliet, please, calm yourself—there's no need for tears…"
"Oh, my dear child, please don't cry…"
All three noble socialites gathered around Juliet, their faces softening with maternal pity.
"Do you find this *amusing*?"
Duchess Ilena's voice cracked like a whip as she turned upon the young woman who had repeated the gossip.
"Ah—? But I only… I didn't mean…" The girl, suddenly caught as the instigator of ridicule, went pale and stammered helplessly.
"What manner of people *are* you?!" the Duchess thundered. "You haven't a single ounce of compassion among you!"
---
Juliet had made excellent use of her three forwarded invitations.
Duchess Ilena, Countess Lavon, and Marchioness Farnese had all been longtime acquaintances of Juliet's late parents. The Montague couple had been deeply respected in high society and had cultivated lasting friendships with many noble families over the years.
Because of this, Juliet was personally acquainted with several formidable older women—women whose power and influence made them feared throughout the capital's social circles.
Of course, these conservative ladies did not approve of Juliet's past actions. An unmarried woman following a man to the North—a man who had offered neither proposal nor engagement—was scandalous behavior that tarnished her noble family's name.
But today, Juliet did not need their approval.
She needed their *anger*.
One of those who had known her parents well—who had watched Juliet grow from a bright-eyed child into a graceful young woman—was Duchess Ilena herself. And she was not alone. Countess Lavon and Marchioness Farnese had also weathered their own storms, emerging stronger through sheer force of will.
All the hardships and injustices these women had endured throughout their lives now converged into a single, powerful wave of fury—directed squarely at the young vultures who had dared to mock one of their own.
"Who needs these wretched men anyway?!" Countess Lavon declared, her voice rising with passionate indignation.
"Precisely! Mark my words—he'll be nothing but a useless old fool in his dotage!" Marchioness Farnese added.
"Yes! Bald and bloated, the lot of them!"
All three of these influential women had either divorced unfaithful husbands or endured tremendous suffering because of worthless men. Their collective bitterness now flowed forth like a river finally unblocked—and Juliet sat quietly at its center, the picture of wounded innocence, letting their righteous anger wash over the salon like a cleansing tide.
---