Olivia stared at the parchments, her vision blurring as the letters danced before her eyes. Time was a luxury she didn't possess; she could not risk being discovered in Isabella's sanctuary.
Clutching the letters to her chest, she retreated to her own chambers, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. One of the envelopes bore a seal she knew all too well—the Butterfly crest.
"What in the name of hell is happening?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "How could she still be in correspondence with him? Was she playing both sides all along?"
As she broke the seal, the handwriting struck her like a physical blow. There was no mistaking the elegant, rhythmic script of Edward Norman. The words were lyrical, drenched in an aching tenderness—the very same words Olivia had heard, long ago, in a place of shadows and iron.
