The door, which had been resting ajar, swung wide to reveal Prince Kyle.
His face was a turbulent mask of shock and burgeoning fury. Beside him, Leon stood with a sharp, knowing glint in his eyes, a faint, mocking smile dancing at the corner of his lips.
Kyle's gaze dropped, scanning Mathias with a clinical, mounting rage.
The bare chest. The towel slung carelessly over one shoulder. The damp hair.
And—most damning of all—the faded crimson brand of a kiss nestled in the hollow of his collarbone.
"What exactly are you doing in my sister's chambers?" Kyle hissed.
Mathias didn't flinch. "Hm? Since when do I require a permit to be in my own wife's room?"
A heavy, suffocating silence followed. For a heartbeat, Kyle seemed to have forgotten the fundamental reality of their union.
Mathias leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his bare chest with a languid, provocative indifference.
"Kyle, it's nine in the morning," Mathias said, his voice a slow, effortless drawl. "Whatever moral crusade you've embarked upon can wait. I'm... a bit occupied."
"Occupied? Occupied?!"
Kyle's voice rose, thick with incredulity and disdain. "Is that what you call this? What the hell are you doing?"
Mathias replied with a chilling coldness. "What I do is no concern of yours. As for your sister, she's bathing. Unless, of course, you'd like to join her?"
Leon, sensing the air was a second away from catching fire, stepped in. He caught Keira's eye with a pointed look.
"Tell the Duchess that His Highness awaits her in the drawing room. We shall head there now."
"Fine," Mathias clipped. "I'll join you shortly. Go on."
Leon turned, placing a firm, decisive hand on Kyle's arm to steer him back down the corridor.
But as they passed Mathias, Leon tilted his head just enough to offer a sly, wicked grin—a look that spoke volumes.
Mathias caught the look. He understood it perfectly. Despite the chaos of the morning, a ghost of a smirk mirrored the expression.
Well played, the silence between them seemed to say.
Inside the steamy sanctuary of the bath, the door creaked open.
Kira slipped in, clutching a neatly folded towel. She kept her gaze respectfully averted, though a faint, telltale blush stained her cheeks.
"My Lady," she began as she approached the tub. "I believe it would be best to choose a gown with a high collar today."
Olivia blinked, reaching for the towel while raising a skeptical eyebrow. "A high collar? Is there a special occasion I've forgotten?"
Kira gestured silently toward her own neck.
Olivia froze for a second. "Ah. I see."
"The Crown Prince is waiting for you in the drawing room," Keira added softly. "The Duke left just a few moments ago."
"Oh, he left, did he?" Olivia sighed, regaining her composure. "Very well. Prepare me to meet the Prince."
In the drawing room, the air was stagnant and heavy.
Kyle had been waiting far longer than any protocol deemed acceptable. He sat rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though it might shatter, his eyes fixed on the door with the intensity of a predator.
Every second that passed in that room felt like a deliberate insult—a weight he was forced to carry in the house of the man he now viewed with a renewed, complicated loathing.
Finally, the door groaned open.
Olivia entered with her chin held high, wearing—as expected—a gown with a high, modest collar that betrayed nothing.
Kyle rose instinctively, but she came to a halt several paces away, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, lethal mockery.
"How marvelous," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "The man who once treated me with nothing but derision now stands to greet me. A curious turn of events, wouldn't you say?"
Her tone struck a raw nerve.
Without a word, Kyle slowly sank back into his seat, unwilling to ignite the fuse of her temper. Olivia approached and sat opposite him, the silence between them thick and suffocating.
She reached for the teapot and began to pour, her movements graceful and deliberate.
"The servants won't be coming in for a while," she noted, sliding a delicate cup toward him.
"Thank you," Kyle muttered, his voice low as he accepted the offering. He stared at the fragile porcelain. "Is this... truly for me?"
Olivia tilted her head with a cynical edge. "If you don't want it, I'll take it back."
"No," he said quickly, tightening his grip. "I want it. Give it to me."
He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip, only for his entire body to stiffen instantly.
The tea was brutally bitter—a concentrated dark brew that made his mouth recoil. He struggled visibly, forcing himself not to spit it out.
Olivia watched him in a stony silence before letting a cold, taunting smirk pull at her lips.
"It's black tea," she remarked flatly.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. Olivia leaned forward, her voice softening into a dangerous purr.
"Now, why have you requested to see me at such an ungodly hour?"
"Why did you do it?" Kyle asked, his voice strained.
Olivia blinked. "Do what, exactly?"
"The necklace. You gave it to Leila. I know what it meant to you... it was your treasure since childhood. Why would you throw it away so easily?"
She brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt with airy indifference.
"Valuable? Of course, it is. But I have more jewels here than I know what to do with. I could buy a dozen more if I wished. Let's just say... its sentimental value had reached its expiration date. It was nothing more than an expensive trinket."
Kyle's expression dimmed with a quiet, lingering sadness.
"Is this... because of my mother? Or... because of me?" His voice dropped to a hollow whisper. "If it's because of what I said that day... because I raised my hand against you—I swear I didn't know what I was doing. I'm sorry, Olivia. Truly. Please, forgive me. Take the necklace back."
Olivia rose from her chair with measured, haunting steps.
She crossed the distance between them, leaned down, and caught his chin firmly but gently in her hand.
"I gave the necklace to Leila, not to you," she whispered, her grip steady even as her gaze sharpened into a blade. "Therefore, its fate is not yours to decide."
Her eyes bored into his.
"And since you brought up that day... I've never been fond of unsettled debts. How about we balance the scales now?"
Kyle swallowed hard, trapped in her gaze. "Fine... I accept. Name your price—I'll give you anything you ask—"
The sentence was never finished.
Crack!
The slap was thunderous, snapping his head to the side.
"That," Olivia said, her voice a glacial chill, "is for raising your hand to me."
Crack! Another strike, even more vicious, landed on the other cheek.
"And that... is for screaming at me in front of your wife and accusing me of spreading your scandals."
Crack! A third strike. This time, her nails caught the edge of his cheek, leaving a sharp red line where a bead of blood began to bloom.
"And this... is for forgetting that I am your sister—and trampling on my dignity in front of my husband."
Kyle froze, stunned into a catatonic silence. He slowly raised a hand to his face, his fingers touching the warm blood. He blinked, the shock radiating through his system.
"Ah..." he murmured breathlessly. "That... that actually hurt."
Olivia had already turned her back on him, returning to her seat with a fluid grace. She crossed one leg over the other and exhaled a long, satisfied breath.
"Now... we are even."
A long moment of silence passed before a short, jagged laugh escaped Kyle's lips.
He leaned back into his chair, hand still pressed to his smarting cheek, his eyes gleaming with the first flickering light of peace he had felt in months.
"Yes," he sighed. "Even."
He paused, his expression turning serious again. "I have... a request."
"A request? Do your demands never end, man?"
Olivia's voice was as sharp as the sting still burning on his face.
"One more. Can you... can you watch Ann for the next two days?"
Her eyes narrowed in pure, unadulterated disbelief. "You want me to play... babysitter?"
Kyle shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words as if treading through a minefield.
"The thing is... the wedding has been moved up. It's in only two weeks. The Emperor has summoned Leila to the palace for the final preparations—dress fittings, flower arrangements, banquet rehearsals. You know how it is."
"And the child," Olivia interrupted, her voice like granite, "is in the way."
"No!" Kyle countered quickly. "But she's so small, she needs constant attention, and the palace staff... well, we tried hiring a governess, but Ann rejected them all."
Olivia crossed her arms over her chest. "And what makes you think I'll be the exception? If she's rejected trained professionals, why expect her to tolerate me?"
"Because you've held her," he said, his voice dropping into a soft plea. "The first time she saw you, she didn't cry. Not even once. She just stared at you. Leila and I both noticed it. She doesn't just look like you, Olivia—there's something else. Something in the way she watches you."
Olivia turned away, her jaw tight. The ghost of a painful memory seemed to flicker behind her eyes.
"I'm sorry. You'll have to find someone else."
"Please—"
She raised a hand, palm flat, to silence him. "I said no. The matter is not up for discussion."
A cold, heavy silence settled over the drawing room. Kyle let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Very well, then. My apologies for disturbing you. I suppose I'll see you at the wedding."
"Yes," she replied simply. "Goodbye."
Olivia retreated to her study, burying herself in a mountain of paperwork.
It was her sanctuary, a place where logic ruled over messy emotions. Even Isabella had stopped coming by lately, and Olivia hadn't found the energy to ask why.
Hours later, she withdrew to her bedchambers, collapsing onto the velvet sofa to rest her weary mind.
The room was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth—until a sound pierced the stillness.
A soft, rhythmic wailing. A baby's cry.
Olivia bolted upright. The sound wasn't distant; it was coming from inside her room.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She followed the faint, fragile whimpering to the far side of her bed—right behind the heavy velvet curtains.
Hidden from view, wrapped in a thick, woollen blanket, lay Ann.
Small, angelic, and flushed from crying. She looked utterly helpless, her sobs muffled as if she were trying to stay hidden.
Olivia stared in stunned, breathless silence. To anyone looking in, the resemblance was haunting—they could have passed for mother and daughter.
Ann's tiny hands trembled, her wet lashes clotted against her skin.
Instinct overrode confusion.
Olivia knelt beside her, her hand trembling as she reached out to stroke the child's back. Ann didn't recoil; instead, she let out a soft whimper and curled closer to Olivia's warmth.
"Damn you, Kyle," Olivia hissed under her breath, her eyes blazing with a cold, murderous fury.
"I swear I will kill you. You reckless, shameless bastard. You threw her here and fled? Like a coward? Like a filthy rat?"