With the cold, methodical precision of an artisan, Olivia bound Isabella's wrists behind her back.
Each knot was cinched with a practiced ease—the terrifying grace of someone who had rehearsed this betrayal in the quiet theater of her mind long before the first blow was struck.
Satisfied with the constraint, Olivia rose to her full height.
Her gaze swept across the room with clinical detachment before finally anchoring on Kira.
"Take her," she commanded.
Kira's face drained of color, her breath hitching in her throat.
"T-Take her where, my lady?"
Olivia paused, her eyes roaming the shadows of the room as if weighing the aesthetics of the house against the necessity of the act.
Then, with a casual flick of her wrist toward the hallway—she spoke.
"The bathroom should suffice."
Kira remained frozen, her eyes darting between her mistress's icy composure and the broken, gasping woman slumped upon the floor.
"Now, Kira."
The sudden edge in Olivia's voice acted like a physical jolt.
Jolted into submission, the girl nodded frantically and moved to seize Isabella. She began to drag the limp, heavy weight of the woman across the floorboards.
At first, Isabella offered a pathetic, half-hearted struggle, her fingers clawing feebly at the wood; but the poison had already woven its web through her veins.
Her strength had vanished, leaving only a hollow shell.
The bathroom door groaned on its hinges, a low, mourning sound.
With one final, resigned exhale that sounded like the ghost of a plea, Isabella was hauled across the threshold.
The door clicked shut—a sharp, final sound that severed the room in two.
She looked down at the blood-streaked carpet, her brow furrowing with the mild disapproval one might show toward a spilled glass of wine.
"Clean this," she directed, her voice a flat line, devoid of even the shadow of remorse. "I need some air."
Without a backward glance, she turned and stepped out into the biting embrace of the night.
She sat in the garden, pressing her palms against her eyes in a desperate bid for serenity.
But the tranquility of the estate was a fragile veil, and it tore easily. Her mind drifted, slipping through the cracks of the present into a colder, darker "then."
The fragrant garden air vanished, replaced by the damp, suffocating rot of a dungeon.
The opulence of the palace dissolved into jagged stone, and the phantom bite of iron chains sank once more into her wrists.
She saw herself again: a broken thing crumpled on a freezing floor, her silk dress reduced to tattered ribbons, and her skin mapped with bruises that bloomed like dark ink stains.
Each breath was a jagged blade in her lungs.
Then came the touch—a ghost of a sensation on her brow. And a voice, gravelly yet softened by an unexpected mercy.
"Little one, are you alright?"
She forced her swollen lids open.
A man knelt in the gloom beside her, his face a roadmap of age and endurance.
A scar traced a jagged path across his cheek, but his eyes—vibrant green, like fresh-sprung grass—searched hers with frantic concern.
From his neck hung a silver locket engraved with a name she didn't recognize: Edward Norman.
"Who are you?" she rasped, the words tearing at her raw throat.
"A prisoner, just as you are," he replied, his voice heavy with empathy.
"And you? What could you have done to earn the Duke's wrath?"
A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled in her chest but died before it reached the air.
Was this their final cruelty? Not content with breaking her in the shadows, they had cast her into a cell with a stranger, stripping away the final remnants of her dignity.
She could not bring herself to tell him that the "Duke" he spoke of was her own father—the man who had discarded her here with icy indifference, the architect of every bruise she wore.
Shrinking back, she pulled the remnants of her gown tight around her frame. Seeing her distress, Edward immediately averted his gaze.
"Peace, child. There is no need for fear. I have a daughter of my own, your age."
Without a second thought, he pulled his shirt over his head and offered it to her, baring his own skin to the lethal chill of the cell.
Olivia hesitated, then took it; the rough fabric was a sanctuary against her nakedness and the shivering cold.
The heavy thud of boots announced a guard, who sneered as he tossed a single plate of meager food onto the grimy floor.
"For you," he spat at Edward, before casting a predatory glance at Olivia. "Not for her."
Olivia's stomach twisted with the ache of hunger, but she remained motionless.
Edward, however, slid the plate into her lap.
"Eat, my child. You look as though you haven't seen a meal in days."
"I... I can't..." she stammered.
"Don't be shy, little one. Please, eat. Just looking at you gives me the hope I need to see my own daughter again."
Olivia took a trembling bite. "Thank you," she whispered. "I am sure your daughter knows how much you love her."
"And I am certain your father is just as sick with worry for you," Edward said gently. "I am sure you will be out of this place soon."
A sharp pang struck her heart.
She choked back a sob, forcing a lie through her teeth because she couldn't bear the weight of his pity.
"Ah... yes. I'm sure he is waiting for me."
Edward Norman became more than a cellmate; he was a guardian in the abyss.
In those few fleeting days, he offered her a warmth her own flesh and blood had never provided. His kindness was etched into her soul like a carving in stone.
She could still hear his final whisper, echoing against the screams that often filled the corridors:
"My little lady, when you leave this place, you must truly live. Do not let them steal your soul."
She had never forgotten.
A sudden voice snapped the thread of the memory, dragging her back to the sunlight of the present...
"My Lady, the Duke requests your presence."
Olivia turned, arching a delicate brow with the sharp precision of a blade. Before her stood the head butler, his face a mask of practiced neutrality.
"Did you not inform me upon my arrival that he was to remain at the royal palace tonight?" she asked, her voice silky yet laced with an unspoken threat.
"Were you lying to me then, or are you merely incompetent now?"
The butler did not flinch, though the air between them grew heavy.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. Urgent matters demanded His Grace's unexpected return. I had no intention of misleading you."
Olivia regarded him for a heartbeat longer, her silence more piercing than a reprimand, before brushing past him.
She had no use for his apologies; she was already calculating the ripples this sudden summons would cause.
That wretched man, she thought, her pulse quickening.
He must have whispered to Mathias about Isabella. Why else would the tiger be back in his den? Her fingers curled instinctively, and she bit down on a nail—a rare, jagged crack in her porcelain composure.
I will deal with that servant later. For now, I must see what trap has been set.
She reached the mahogany door of the Duke's chambers.
But as she raised a hand to knock, the door was wrenched open with violent force.
Before she could gasp, a hand like a vice clamped around her wrist, hauling her into the room.
"What in the—?"
The protest died in her throat as she stumbled to find her footing.
She looked up, her eyes flashing with a fury she was ready to unleash, only to collide with the tempestuous gaze of Mathias.
"Oh, it's you," she breathed, smoothing her features into a mask of cold irritation.
"Is this your new custom? Savage greetings and bruised wrists? What is the meaning of this?"
Matthias's green eyes—usually as calm as a forest—now burned with the heat of a wildfire.
He released her abruptly, but his shadow loomed over her, tense and predatory.
"You dare play the victim?" he rasped, his voice a low thunder. "I should ask you: what is the meaning of your actions?"
Olivia tilted her head, a picture of wounded innocence and elegant confusion.
"Me? I haven't the slightest idea what you are raving about. I simply declined to join the party at the palace. Since when has a preference for solitude been a capital offense?"
Mathias stepped into her personal space, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Olivia, do not play the fool. It does not suit you. Tell me... what happened between you and Isabella?"
"Nothing happened," she snapped.
The answer came too fast—a jagged, panicked reflex.
Matthias narrowed his eyes, a grim smirk touching his lips.
"A hasty tongue is the herald of a lie," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"Tell me where you took her. Tell me what you did. I have looked the other way for your many cruelties, Olivia, but to lay a hand on Leon's wife? You have crossed a border from which there is no return."
" Olivia. She is family—not one of the ornaments you break when you are bored."
Olivia drew herself up, her eyes glittering with feigned outrage.
"I told you—I did nothing. And what? You would take the word of a common servant, that old man, over mine?"
Matthias's expression shifted, a trap snapping shut in his eyes.
"How curious," he murmured. "I never mentioned it was the head butler who spoke to me."
For a fraction of a second, the blood in Olivia's veins turned to ice.
She had tripped over her own web.
She recovered instantly, hardening her gaze, but the damage was done. Mathias stepped back, tilting his head as if observing a fascinating, venomous insect.
"Tell me the truth, Olivia. Or I shall go to Isabella and let the truth bleed from her own lips."
Olivia's mind raced. Kyle's message had been absolute: Mathias was supposed to be miles away, bound by royal protocol.
What had shattered that certainty? How had the world moved so quickly against her?
But she would not break. She straightened her spine, meeting his emerald fire with her own icy resolve.
"Go ahead," she said, her voice as smooth as polished stone.
"Ask her. I don't mind in the least."