Once they stepped into the room and the door clicked shut behind them, a sudden transformation swept over their expressions. The warmth that had danced across Isabella's face moments before—smiles she had scattered generously to the waiting servants—faded into a sharp, almost steely composure. Olivia, in contrast, wore a wry, knowing smile, the corners of her lips tugging upward in mockery.
"So," she began, her voice laced with irony, "you rescued me. You've chosen your side."
Isabella's jaw tightened. Without replying immediately, she yanked her hair back with a frustrated hand, the gesture more feral than elegant. She began pacing the length of the room, her steps echoing softly against the polished floor.
"Are you out of your mind?" she snapped finally, her tone brimming with fury barely kept in check. "What were you thinking, Olivia? You could have died! Do you truly believe death is something you can just flirt with and walk away from?"
Olivia remained slouched in the armchair she had thrown herself into, her expression unreadable, indifferent even. Of all people, she knew the true weight of death—its cold breath, its lingering silence. She had met it before, danced at its edge. And it had scarred her in ways no one could ever see.
"Perhaps I am a little mad," she said calmly, almost amused by Isabella's fury. "But don't pretend you don't understand. You're not like me, no, but you're no stranger to the fire burning in my chest. You want vengeance just as much as I do. And whether you like it or not, you're going to need me."
Isabella stopped pacing. A reluctant smile crept onto her face—half admiration, half resignation. She lowered herself into the chair opposite Olivia, crossing her legs slowly.
"You really are insane," she said with a quiet chuckle. "But you're clever—damn clever. And yes, I do need you. I need you if I'm going to do this right, if I'm going to make them pay. So, tell me—what's your plan?"
But Olivia leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Her tone sharpened like a blade.
"Before we speak of plans, I need to know something. What did you tell Mathias about me this morning? And how in God's name did he end up in my bed? Did he come to visit you and you sent him my way? Or is there something you're not telling me?"
Isabella's eyes widened, confusion spreading across her features.
"What? Visit me? Olivia, he came to see you. Why would he come to check on me? He's never shown the slightest concern for my well-being before. What are you talking about?"
Now it was Olivia's turn to stare, stunned. She blinked, trying to recalibrate her thoughts.
"He came to see me? Wait—hold on. Let me process this. He came... when? How is it I don't remember a thing?"
A heavy silence settled between them, charged with the weight of half-truths and unspoken doubts. Something was wrong—more wrong than either of them had first realized.
Isabella took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before recounting everything that had transpired. Her voice was low, her tone colored by frustration and disbelief as she began detailing the morning's events. She told Olivia how Mathias had confronted her—stern and unyielding—and demanded that she leave Olivia's chambers immediately, warning her against spreading rumors that might tarnish Olivia's already fragile reputation. He had remained with Olivia afterward, his concern for her evident in the way he lingered at her side.
As Isabella spoke, Olivia's expression shifted. A pang of guilt stirred within her, heavy and uncomfortable. She glanced away, ashamed for a fleeting second—but just as quickly, the memory of his harsh words, the way he had once spoken to her with cold detachment, surfaced like a bruise pressed too hard. That familiar sense of defiance replaced her guilt.
She leaned back into the plush velvet of the armchair, fatigue tugging at her limbs. Raising a hand to her temple, she closed her eyes briefly. "Enough of that for now," she muttered. "Tell me—when is the wedding set to take place?"
Isabella's voice was even, almost dismissive. "Since it's merely a formal announcement of their union—they are already married, after all—it's been decided that the ceremony will be held within three days. No more."
Olivia scoffed under her breath, her lips curling in disbelief. "Three days... A week would've been ambitious, but three days? Hah. Then we must tread carefully."
Isabella tilted her head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Olivia's gaze grew distant, her eyes narrowing with that calculating sharpness she wore like a second skin. "Do you truly believe my father would allow such an alliance—between the Duchy and the royal family—to unfold without resistance? The paperwork might be done, yes, but he will not stand idly by while his influence is diluted. He'll see the ceremony as the perfect stage for disruption. Mark my words—he'll stir trouble, and he'll do it with precision."
She leaned forward now, her tone colder. "We have to be vigilant. Every move we make, every word we speak—it all matters now. He will seize upon the smallest weakness, twist it, weaponize it. And then… there's her."
A shadow fell across Isabella's face. "Her? You mean your sister?"
Olivia laughed, but it was humorless—bitter. "Sister? She's far more than that. She's a demon cloaked in silk and smiles. No one knows her like I do." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, venomous and weary all at once. "She is more than a harlot. She is a serpent in the garden."
A silence hung between them, thick and foreboding.
"Whatever she's planning," Olivia said, pushing herself to her feet with effort, "we'll have to be ready. But not now. I need rest. We'll continue this tomorrow."
Isabella left the room with quiet steps, her presence dissolving into the silence like a ghost at the beginning of the night. Behind her, Olivia lay slumped across the length of the velvet settee, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The weight of the evening had settled into her bones; it felt impossible to rise, even to make it to the bed. Her body, drained by conflict and concealed truths, surrendered to sleep without grace or ceremony.
The night passed without dreams.
In the middle of the night she woke up, pale and hesitant, that she stirred. But it was not the sun that woke her—it was the delicate sound of liquid being poured into crystal.
She blinked, her vision bleary. The room seemed wrapped in a haze, as though memory and reality had melted into one. But even through the fog, she recognized the figure seated opposite her, half-slouched, surrounded by empty glass bottles that glinted like fallen stars across the table.
She rubbed her eyes, straightened slowly, and let out a yawn.
"Mathias?" she asked, her voice a whisper of sleep. "What are you doing here?"
He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and heavy-lidded. There was something disoriented in his gaze—half confusion, half indifference. "What?" he muttered, as though the question were too complex for his dulled mind to grasp.
It was clear—painfully so—that he had been drinking deep into the night. The number of bottles strewn about was damning enough.
Olivia rose carefully, her joints stiff with fatigue. She moved toward the table and began clearing the empty flasks, her fingers brushing over their cool surfaces. When she reached for the glass in his hand, intending to take it away, his grip tightened abruptly around her wrist.
She froze.
His eyes met hers then—no longer sleepy, but sorrowful, as though he carried the weight of something too great to name.
"Olivia," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "am I… a bad man?"
She blinked, taken aback. "What?" she asked, unsure if she'd heard correctly. "What are you saying? You've clearly had too much to drink—"
Still holding the glass, she gently pried it from his hand, setting it on the table behind her. But before she could turn back, his arms wrapped around her waist with a sudden, desperate pull.
"Mathias—" she began, startled, but he had already drawn her down into his lap, his grip firm, unrelenting.
Her breath caught.
She didn't struggle. Perhaps she could have, but there was something raw in the way he held her—an ache she recognized all too well. He buried his face against her neck, his arms alternately loosening, then tightening again, as though unsure whether to let go or hold on until he broke.
Seconds passed in silence. Then, finally, he spoke—his voice cracked, almost childlike in its vulnerability.
"I don't know how to fix any of it," he said. "I just… I don't want to lose what little I have left."
His words hung in the air, heavy with the sting of regret.
And Olivia, motionless in his arms, could only listen—wondering whether this man, in his drunken confessions, was revealing something truer than he ever had while sober.
"Olivia… I—I never meant to hurt you," he stammered, his voice cracking with the weight of guilt. "I never wanted this… I never wanted you to feel so lost that you'd even think of ending your life. Why, Olivia? Why would you do that?"
Her eyes widened in disbelief, the breath catching in her throat. That wasn't what she had expected—not from him. Not from Mathias, the man who had always cloaked himself in indifference, in cold restraint. His words pierced the silence like a blade.
"I… no. That's not what happened," she whispered, her voice thin and wavering. "You don't understand. I wasn't trying to… It was a misunderstanding. Just a terrible misunderstanding."
But he wasn't listening to her denial. With a sudden gentleness, he lifted her frail form in his arms, as though she were weightless, and turned her face toward his. His hands, once so controlled, now trembled faintly as they settled at her waist. Olivia stared into his green eyes—no longer distant or guarded, but open, raw. And then, to her astonishment, a single tear broke free from his eye and traced a silent path down his cheek.
She froze, stunned by the sight.
His voice returned, quieter this time, more fragile. "Yes, it's a political marriage. I've always known that. And maybe I never said it aloud, but I never wanted you to suffer. I swore—I swore I would never make my wife live the way my mother did. But I failed. I failed you, and I let you think that I cared more for Leon's wife than I do for you."
Her heart clenched. She had not expected this softness—not from Mathias. And certainly not when soaked in drink. He always tried to keep himself contained, distant. But now… he was unraveling.
Her slender fingers reached up of their own accord, brushing away the tear that still clung to his cheek. She knew this side of him—this childlike tenderness that only emerged when he had let go of all pretense, when the wine loosened the chains he wrapped around his heart. And as she wiped away the tear, shame bloomed in her chest like a thorned rose. All her lies, all her games—she had promised to be a better wife. To be his ally. But now, watching him suffer, she saw what she had become.
"Mathias," she said softly, painfully, "even if you don't love me, I know you would never betray me. I don't fear that. I don't see your father when I look at you."
Her gaze darkened slightly, uncertain. "But tell me… is it the same for you? Do you still see him in me? Do I still remind you of my father?"
The silence that followed was like the hush before a storm—pregnant with truth, and the question of whether it would heal or destroy.
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching it with a seriousness that made her breath catch. Then, in a voice both quiet and certain, he said,
"You're extraordinary, Olivia. You could never be anyone's copy… not a reflection of your father, not a shadow of anyone. You are… just you."
The words landed like warm sunlight on frozen earth. Olivia's lips curved into a smile—soft, stunned, utterly genuine. For the first time, he was not looking at her as a daughter of a name, a pawn in a larger game, or a strategic alliance. He was seeing her—just Olivia. His wife.
No wine had touched her lips, and yet she felt intoxicated, the lingering warmth of his arms around her, the tremor in her chest—it all made her feel dizzy, like someone who'd danced too long under the stars.
Then Mathias pulled her closer, the motion sudden but not rough. His arms encircled her like a shield, and his eyes flickered from her lips to her eyes, seeking permission.
"May I touch you?" he asked, his voice low, nearly lost in the hush between them.
She laughed softly, surprised by his question. "I'm already in your lap," she teased.
But he didn't laugh. Instead, he leaned his head close to hers and murmured against her shoulder, "I mean… that kind of touch. The kind that asks and doesn't take. Is it allowed?"
She felt his breath against her skin, warm and unguarded. A shiver traced her spine. Her heart fluttered, not with fear, but with the strange ache of wanting. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and after a long pause—barely audible—she said, "Ah… I suppose… it is."
The moment the words escaped her, his mouth was on her neck, soft at first, then firmer—leaving behind the burn of a kiss and the faintest red mark like a pressed bloom. She gasped, half from surprise, half from sensation.
Then his hands gently framed her face, and their lips met—fiercely, feverishly. The kiss was far from careful; it was the culmination of silence, of nights spent apart , of words unspoken. It was fire and apology, curiosity and hunger.
But when they finally pulled apart, she burst into laughter.
He blinked, dazed. "What's so funny?"
Still giggling, she pointed to his face. "You look like a clown! My lipstick—it's everywhere."
He groaned and rubbed his face with the sleeve of his shirt, smudging the red even further. "Is that better?" he muttered dryly.
"No," she said, doubled over now, "worse. Much worse."
Mathias narrowed his eyes playfully. "We'll see who laughs last, Duchess."
Before she could react, he scooped her up unceremoniously and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Hey!" she shrieked, kicking her legs in protest. "Put me down, you brute!"
He only chuckled. "Not a chance. You mocked your husband. That requires consequences."