"I did not kill her,"
Olivia sighed, the sound heavy with a weariness that transcended explanation.
"But that hardly matters now, does it? She is gone. The reality remains unchanged. But... what about you?, are you alright?"
Matthias turned his gaze toward her, his eyes clouded with a profound, aching sorrow.
"No," he admitted, the word barely a whisper. "I am not alright. Not in the slightest."
She had expected him to armor himself in stoicism, to retreat behind the walls of his pride. Instead, she watched as his resolve simply... splintered.
She raised a hand, beckoning him with a softness that felt foreign in the cold air of the room.
"Come here."
He hesitated, his brow furrowing in a flicker of confusion—yet, he obeyed.
As he drew near, she reached out and guided him into her embrace. Without resistance, he allowed her to lead him until his head came to rest in her lap.
Her fingers began to weave through his hair with a rhythmic tenderness, and slowly, the jagged edges of his breathing began to dull.
"What do you think you're doing?"
he murmured, a final, ghost-like attempt at defensiveness.
"I am trying to gather the pieces of what is left of you," she whispered. "Just... be still for a moment."
He offered no reply—at least, not in words.
But the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the hem of her silk dress, and the way he finally allowed his weight to collapse against her, spoke of a desperation he could no longer hide.
In that fragile heartbeat, the accusations died away. The masks were discarded.
There were only two broken souls, clinging to a tenderness they both believed they had long since forfeited.
Silence stretched between them—tender yet trembling, like a fraying rope bridge suspended over a chasm of chaos. Olivia's hand continued its slow, steady path through his hair.
He closed his eyes, his grip on her dress tightening.
"I think... I think this is why I cannot find it in me to hate you," Matthias muttered.
"You were always so terrifyingly honest in your cruelty. You never feigned love for me, but you never bothered to pretend you hated me either."
Her fingers stilled for a fraction of a second.
"A strange thing to say," she whispered. "Especially now."
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped him. "Well, it is a strange night."
She looked down at him, brushing a dark lock of hair behind his ear.
"You said I was your family, Matthias. But surely you realize that families are the ones best equipped to destroy each other."
"I am aware," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion.
"And yet, you still seek to protect me?"
He opened his eyes, the emerald depths clouded by fatigue, and reached up to rest his palm against her cheek.
"I don't know what I want. But I know I don't want you dead. I know I don't want to lose you—not to guilt, not to poison, and certainly not to the cold judgment of everyone else in this cursed house. I simply... cannot lose you too."
The moment snapped.
He pulled his hand away abruptly and stood, the distance between them returning like a sudden chill.
"Get some rest," he said, his voice regaining its formal edge. "Return to your room. I shall go... well, I shall see you later."
"Very well," she replied softly. "You may go."
Olivia watched him retreat, her eyes following the silhouette of a man who was walking back into the storm. She didn't need to ask where he was heading; she knew exactly where the ghosts would lead him.
He lingered before the threshold for what felt like an eternity, his hand suspended inches from the brass handle.
It was as if the metal had gained a sudden, impossible mass, turning the simple act of entry into a Herculean labor.
Within him, memories surged like a silent gale—the melodic fragments of her laughter, the gentle tilt of her head as she listened, and the radiant warmth that had once convinced him the world was a sanctuary.
No blood tied them; she had not carried him into this life. Yet, in every way that defined the soul, she had been his mother.
Drawing a jagged, uneven breath, he attempted to gather the shattered remnants of his composure.
His appearance betrayed the ruin of his spirit: clothes creased and stale from a night spent pacing his brother's floor, hair a wild thicket, and eyes heavy with the weight of unshed grief.
There was no vanity left in him, for he knew she required none. She had always seen him—truly seen him—even when he was at his most broken.
The hinges offered a faint, ghostly sigh as he finally pushed the door open. Inside, the air hung heavy and unnervingly still.
He approached the bed with measured, reluctant steps. There she lay, draped in a semblance of slumber so profound it felt like a deception, her form preserved in a cruel, waxen imitation of life.
He reached out, his fingers closing around her hand. It was cold—a hollow, unnatural chill.
The vibrant warmth that had once cupped his cheeks and played through his hair when he was a boy had been replaced by a pallid, porcelain blue.
Tears arrived unbidden, blurring the world into a watery haze.
His green eyes, which once held the reckless fire of youth, were now a surging sea of sorrow.
He collapsed to his knees, pressing his forehead into the hollow of her palm, an unspoken prayer that her touch might somehow return, as if the universe were a merchant one could bargain with.
"Mama…"
The word splintered in his throat.
"Please… wake up. I can't—I can't do this. Your son is here… why won't you look at me? It hurts so much, it feels as though my heart is tearing itself apart."
Silence was his only answer.
Desperate for a final shred of closeness, he climbed onto the bed and curled against her side as he had done in childhood.
He buried his face in the fading scent of her, as if by staying close enough to hear a heartbeat that no longer beat, he could anchor her soul to this world.
"Mama… please. Leon and I… we need you. And Amy—little Amelia hardly knew you. Is this how you leave us? Without a single goodbye?"
Matthew's voice fractured against the absolute wall of her silence.
The stillness was suffocating, thick with the heavy quiet that follows a devastating truth.
Though he spoke to a vessel, a stubborn part of him still believed she might stir—that the faintest twitch of a smile could undo this nightmare.
Then, a sound broke the quiet—fragile at first, then raw and visceral.
It was a sob of pure desolation, but it did not belong to him.
Matthew looked up to find Leon standing on the opposite side of the bed. His brother's eyes were bloodshot, drowning in a tide of tears he could no longer stem.
Leon's mouth trembled with the agony of suppressed grief until, finally, his restraint shattered completely.
With two stumbling steps, Leon fell forward, his body collapsing over their mother's silent form.
"Mom… why? Why now, when we're finally whole again? I know I was trouble… I know I wasn't the son you deserved. But I tried, I truly did. Please… why this silent departure? Why go without a word?"
Matthew felt his chest tighten at his younger brother's words; each one felt like a shard of glass.
Moving with a leaden heaviness, he rose and circled the bed.
Without a word, he reached down and pulled Leon into a fierce embrace.
It was perhaps the first time they had held each other this way—not as boys wrestling in play, but as two men clinging to one another amidst the wreckage of their world.
Leon's arms locked around him with a crushing, desperate strength.
He buried his face in Matthew's chest, and together they broke—their shared weeping raw enough to scrape the very air from the room.
Neither noticed the two figures standing in the shadow of the doorway. Olivia and Isabella lingered there, silent witnesses to the tempest of grief.
Isabella pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle the cries rising in her throat, but her tears fell fast and hot.
Olivia turned, drawing the girl into a steadying embrace. Her voice was a low, grounding murmur.
"Come. We will leave them to their grief; let them have this moment in peace."
Isabella's breath hitched, and she nodded, brushing away the salt from her cheeks with trembling fingers.
"You're right… let's go. Let them mourn their mother… without us intruding."
They slipped away like shadows, leaving the room to become a sanctuary of sorrow. Once they were out of earshot, Olivia stopped, her eyes narrowing with a cold, lethal sharpness.
"Isabella," she whispered, her voice a chilling command.
"See to it that the physician and his aides remain silent. I do not want the news of the Duchess's passing to leak beyond these walls. The funeral will be held in private."
Isabella nodded, her breath catching at the sudden shift in Olivia's aura.
"And one more thing," Olivia added, her gaze fixed on the darkness of the corridor.
"Find that maid for me—the one who claimed she witnessed me killing the Duchess. I shall show her exactly who she has dared to trifle with."