Her gaze locked onto his, unwavering and unblinking, as though her eyes had forgotten how to look away. A dry knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed with effort before speaking—her voice barely a whisper beneath a faint, ironic laugh.
"Heh... I must admit," she said, the corners of her lips twitching in bitter amusement. "They did a remarkable job setting me up. I think... I think they really meant it this time."
He stared at her coldly, his arms folded, his back rigid as iron. There was no humor in his face, only ice.
"I don't understand you," he said, his voice clipped and tight, like a blade barely sheathed. "I really don't. They saw you, Olivia. You were in her room. All I'm asking is—just tell me what she did to you. If it had been me you killed, or even Isabella—God knows I'd understand that better. But her?"
His eyes flickered to the lifeless form stretched across the bed—the once proud Duchess now reduced to a breathless shadow. His voice cracked.
"She couldn't even lift her hand from the sheets anymore. If you had just waited a few more months, nature would have done the job for you. You didn't need to..."
He broke off. His fist collided with the wall, a dull, sickening thud echoing through the stone chamber as he bowed his head, trembling.
Her voice rose then, raw and desperate.
"I already said it—why would I kill your mother? What would I gain from that? You and I were never close, sure, but I would never have done such a thing!"
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes bloodshot with disbelief.
"And yet your earring was there," he spat. "By the bed. And there are witnesses. What now—are you calling all of them liars?"
"She's framing me!" Olivia snapped. "Of course she is! That whore wants me gone!"
His eyes narrowed. "A maid who barely knows you? Why would she risk perjuring herself over you?"
A bitter laugh burst from Olivia's lips, but there was no mirth in it—only a deep, aching resentment.
"You say it like anyone here actually likes me," she hissed. "As if they need reasons. They'll blame me because I don't fit their perfect little court. I'm not the darling of the nobles, I'm not sweet and obedient, and your mother never bothered to hide her contempt for me. The Master of this cursed estate would throw me in chains just for existing."
She stepped toward him then, her voice trembling but unbowed.
"Have you ever considered that maybe—just maybe—I'm telling the truth? That she lied, or they lied, or someone wanted this whole thing to look like my doing?"
He said nothing, only stared.
She clenched her fists, her breath shaky. "So what will you do now? Drag me to the dungeons like a common criminal? Fulfill their fantasy of seeing me rot behind stone walls?"
The silence between them stretched, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the corridors, like a ghost mourning the truth buried beneath layers of betrayal.
He looked at her, but no words came. His silence hung thick in the air, heavy with disbelief, as though he were watching something slip from his grasp and had no idea how to stop it.
She reached across the table with graceful finality, fingers curling around the slender bottle that shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Poison. It sat like a quiet sentence between them. She held it delicately, almost reverently, and turned toward him with a smile so hollow it broke something inside him.
"I won't go back to prison," she said softly, her voice edged with resignation. "I would rather die here than rot for a crime I didn't commit."
One word in that statement jolted him like a slap.
Back.
His breath caught. Back to prison? When had she ever—?
"What are you talking about, Olivia?" he asked, almost to himself, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean 'again'—what are you—"
But she was no longer listening.
She had already tilted the bottle to her lips.
His eyes widened in horror as the glass glinted, and instinct overrode everything. "Olivia!" he roared, lunging forward.
He reached her just as she drank deep, yanking the vial from her hands, but too late—far too late. The liquid inside had already diminished. She swayed as though the floor beneath her had shifted.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his hands gripping her shoulders as though he could shake the poison from her bones. "What are you doing, Olivia?! Answer me!"
But her eyes had already begun to glaze over, her breath growing shallow. She tilted toward him, her body suddenly weightless in his arms.
He shook her harder. "Olivia, stay with me—hey! Look at me! Say something!"
No response. Only the faint tremble of her silver hair fluttering as he rocked her, the strands falling across her face like a curtain of silk. His gaze dropped to the vial in his hand—the level had dropped significantly. She had swallowed more than enough.
A cold dread flooded his chest.
"God... no."
He gathered her limp body against him, panic overtaking reason. He didn't know what to do. His mind screamed to act, to fix this, but his limbs felt foreign, his breath was uneven.
In desperation, he pressed his mouth to hers, trying to draw out whatever he could—tasting the bitter residue of the toxin, spitting it out again, his hands trembling with useless urgency.
"Help!" he shouted finally, his voice echoing down the corridor. "Someone help me!"
The door slammed open.
Leon entered, breathless and confused, the only one permitted near the duchess's quarters since they'd begun hiding her death from the rest of the estate.
He froze at the sight: his brother, pale and frantic, clutching Olivia's lifeless body like a man who had just realized how much he stood to lose.
"Leon," Matthias gasped, his voice hoarse and broken, "Take her—take her to her room! Fetch the physician—now! I can't… my legs… I can't stand—please!"
Leon didn't ask questions. One look at Olivia's limp form and Matthias's horror-stricken face was enough. Without hesitation, he swept her into his arms and bolted for the hallway.
Matthias remained kneeling, shaking, the bottle still clenched in his hand, the taste of poison still on his tongue, and the image of her smile—that smile—forever seared into his mind.
He had no idea if he'd just witnessed her final moment… or the beginning of the end for both of them.
Leon said nothing as he lifted Olivia into his arms, her body alarmingly light and limp. He moved quickly, his boots echoing against the marble floors of the corridor. He knew better than to risk crossing paths with curious servants or lingering eyes—the last thing they needed now were rumors spiraling out of control.
Instead of taking her to her own quarters, which were farther and likely already watched, he turned into the nearest chamber—his own. It was a calculated choice. Few ever entered his space, and it was close enough to spare time.
He laid her gently upon the bed, her pallor stark against the dark linen, then pivoted and strode out with urgency. Moments later, his voice could be heard echoing through the halls, calling for the physician with an authority no one dared ignore.
Fortunately, the dose had been small. The poison had not yet taken root in her bloodstream. The physician, seasoned and discreet, administered the antidote with precision. Within the hour, the storm receded. Her life, for now, was no longer slipping through fingers.
An hour passed.
A low moan escaped Olivia's lips, followed by the flutter of her eyelids. She stirred as though waking from a century-long dream, her limbs heavy, her breath shallow. She winced and raised a trembling hand to her temple, her mind veiled in fog.
As her eyes adjusted to the soft candlelight, she took in her surroundings. This was not her room. The furniture was foreign. The air smelled faintly of leather and old books. Her heart quickened.
Turning her head, she noticed a man seated by her bedside, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp with observation.
Leon.
He was watching her closely, elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped loosely together.
"You're awake at last, sister-in-law," he said, his tone cool but not unkind. "How are you feeling?"
Her breath caught. The question seemed innocent enough, but the weight of what had happened came crashing back like a wave—her hand around the bottle, Matthias's voice calling her name, the bitterness on her tongue.
She let out a low, humorless laugh, dry and laced with pain. "Do I look fine to you?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Leon tilted his head slightly, unfazed. "Physically, yes. You'll recover. But I'm not asking about your body."
She blinked.
He leaned back. "I'm asking about your mind. Are you well here?" he tapped the side of his head.
The question struck her like a slap. Her breath hitched. Did he just…?
"I beg your pardon?" she said slowly, her voice low and guarded.
"I know it's a rude thing to ask," he replied, almost conversationally, "but are you—how do I put this—suffering from some kind of mental affliction? Should we be... concerned?"
Her blood began to heat in her veins. She sat up a little, though the effort made her vision spin. "That's quite a thing to say to someone who nearly died."
Leon studied her quietly for a moment, arms folded across his chest, the flicker of firelight casting shifting shadows across his face. Then he exhaled, a soft huff of disbelief, almost amusement.
"You look fine, I'll give you that," he said dryly, his voice laced with ironic detachment. "But your mind? That's another story altogether. Tell me, Olivia—what sane person drinks poison of their own free will? Do you treat your life like a coin tossed in a tavern bet?"
The words struck her like frost. She stared at him, lips slightly parted, but said nothing. Now that she understood what he was insinuating, the silence between them grew charged, bristling with unspoken insult.
Leon, undeterred, continued.
"Honestly, it was a foolish move. Reckless. I expected better from you."
Her composure finally cracked.
"Watch your words, Lord Leon," she said, voice rising despite her weakness. "You speak as if you too suspect me of murdering the duchess."
He tilted his head and gave a derisive chuckle. "Murdering the duchess? Really now. Do I look like someone who entertains fairy tales?"
Her expression shifted, surprise flickering across her face. "So... you don't believe I did it?"
He gave her a long, measured look. "No. You may be proud. Cold-hearted, even. But not stupid. And killing the duchess in such an obvious way? That would've been stupid."
She blinked, uncertain if she had just been insulted or spared.
"Then why are you so sure I'm not the one who did it?" she asked quietly.
Leon's lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. He leaned forward, the candle casting a gleam along the edge of his jaw.
"Because if it had been you," he said smoothly, "we never would've found the body. No witnesses. No evidence. Just an empty bed and a string of questions with no answers. You've buried more than one skeleton in your past, haven't you, Olivia? And none of them ever pointed back to you. If you had done it, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
A slow, cunning smile spread across her face. "Ah... They weren't wrong to call you the Fox of the Lucron Duchy."
He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with a practiced air. "A title I wear with pride, sister-in-law."
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "I'll send for my brother now. You two have much to discuss, and frankly, it's no longer my mess to untangle."
She watched him reach for the handle, but before he stepped out, her voice stopped him.
"Thank you," she said softly, without a trace of sarcasm.
He glanced back, clearly taken aback. A small, surprised smile played at his lips.
"So... Matthias was right. You really have changed."
And with that, he vanished into the corridor, leaving Olivia alone with the echoes of words that felt far heavier than the silence that followed.