A strained silence settled over them, thick and uncomfortable, stretching for several seconds like a pause in an ill-performed play. Then, mercifully, a soft but firm knock broke the stillness. The voice of the maid filtered through the door, careful yet urgent.
"My Lord Duke, forgive the interruption... but Her Majesty the Queen and the Crown Prince have arrived. They await your presence."
The duke's expression hardened. He replied coolly, without raising his voice.
"Inform them we shall be there shortly."
The silence returned for a fleeting moment as he and Olivia exchanged a long, unreadable glance. Then, with a mechanical grace, he pushed the covers aside and rose from the bed.
"There is no need for you to come down," he murmured, not unkindly. "Stay and rest."
But Olivia did not so much as acknowledge his suggestion. As if his words had passed through her like air, she stood, wrapping the sheets about her momentarily before striding to her wardrobe. Her voice was clear and commanding when she called out.
"Kira. Enter, now."
Mathias's jaw tensed. His hands, now folded tightly behind his back, betrayed the storm beginning to brew within him.
"What is the meaning of this behavior, Olivia?" he asked, his tone clipped with rising irritation.
She didn't answer at first. Her fingers glided past gowns of silk and velvet, pausing only to assess the shade or texture of a fabric. Then, without looking at him, she replied evenly, her voice devoid of warmth.
"Her Majesty requested my presence. Is there any reason I shouldn't go to her?"
He stepped forward without hesitation.
"Yes," he said flatly. "You're unwell."
She turned then, just slightly, casting him a glance filled with disdainful amusement.
"Oh? Are you worried about me now?" she said, with mock curiosity. "After all the venom you spat at me last night? Spare me, Mathias. Stick to your role— the indifferent husband. This little charade of affection... it disgusts me."
The words struck him harder than he expected. For a moment, he said nothing. His lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came. Silence stood between them once more, sharp as broken glass. And then, perhaps still holding onto some lingering sense of duty—or guilt—he reached into her wardrobe and pulled out a simple silk gown, soft and unadorned.
"If you insist on going," he said quietly, offering it to her, "then wear something comfortable. There's no need to dress up for them. Just... try not to exhaust yourself."
Olivia snatched the gown from his hand with a sudden fury, her voice rising like a storm.
"Wouldn't it be better if you saved your concern for someone else in this house? Isabella, for instance. I may have hurt her, after all. So why this sudden interest in me?" Her eyes burned now, every syllable laced with contempt. "If you're feeling guilty, don't. You've made it clear you hate me. No need to pretend to be kind now. The performance is over, Mathias."
He opened his mouth again—perhaps to argue, perhaps to plead—but her next words were sharp and final.
"Now leave. Please."
And though he lingered for a moment longer, torn between anger and something deeper, he eventually turned and walked away, the door closing behind him like the last page of a bitter chapter.
His eyes widened at her outburst—a silent flinch, almost imperceptible, but real. The fury in her voice was a storm he hadn't prepared for, and each word she hurled at him struck like a blade, slicing clean through the thin armor of his pride. He said nothing. He couldn't. For somewhere beneath the sharpness of her rage, he knew—perhaps for the first time—that she wasn't entirely wrong.
So he did what cowards and kings both often do when words fail them: he turned, and left.
The door closed behind him with a hushed finality. A breath later, Kira entered, brisk and attentive, eyes flickering between the crumpled gown on the bed and Olivia's shadowed expression. She said nothing, only awaited instruction.
Olivia stood still, her arms crossed, her posture regal even in the dim morning light. Her gaze drifted toward the violet dress that lay discarded, its fabric rich and soft but touched now with the remnants of anger and indecision. She stared at it for a long moment, then let out a breath that felt too heavy for her lungs.
"This one," she said quietly. "Help me into it."
Kira nodded and moved with swift precision. Olivia sat as the maid arranged her hair in a simpler style than usual, and when she reached for the cosmetics, Olivia raised a hand.
"Not much. I don't want to feel... weighed down."
Kira obeyed, dabbing only the faintest color to her cheeks and lips. There was no need for pretense today. Not anymore.
In the grand guest hall, the air was stiff with anticipation, charged with the kind of tension that usually preceded battle. Servants moved like ghosts along the edges, sensing the storm but unable to flee it. The Queen sat at the head of the chamber, her poise as perfect as her silence. Beside her, the Crown Prince stood as still as a statue.
In other place Mathias lingered outside Olivia's door, his hand hovering just inches from the polished wood. He had come to knock more than once, yet always pulled back, his breath shallow with hesitation. Time ticked mercilessly forward, dragging with it the weight of obligations he no longer knew how to bear.
Then the door opened on its own. Olivia stood before him, her presence like a cold wind through a broken window—chilling, inevitable. Her eyes met his with no warmth, no fire, just a detached calm that was more cutting than rage.
She didn't speak. She simply took his arm, her grip firm but empty of affection.
"Let's go," she said at last, her voice low and toneless. "They're waiting."
Together, they walked down the long corridor. To an outsider, they might have looked like a picture of unity—poised, elegant, untouchable. But every step echoed with the unspoken wounds they carried.
When the doors to the hall opened, a shift swept through the room like the passing of a cold wind. Conversations died. Eyes turned. The Queen's gaze narrowed ever so slightly.
Olivia took her place beside Mathias; Leon stood across the hall with tense stillness; Kyle and Layla sat to one side, whispering nervously between themselves. And the Queen—always alone, always watching—waited in silence.
And then, finally, she spoke.
The Queen's voice cut through the air with all the grace of a velvet-wrapped dagger.
"So," she said, her tone dripping with cold deliberation, "His Majesty has permitted the union between Kyle and Miss Layla, and has affirmed the marriage as valid. I have come, then, to discuss the matter of the dowry."
Her words, though spoken calmly, were laced with venom. No one at the table missed the sharp glint beneath the surface.
But Mathias did not flinch
His fingers moved with a lightness that belied the weight of what he held. He opened it, and a single page—elegant, official, marked with the royal seal—lay exposed.
"This," he said with a slight smile, "is the deed to the Southern Diamond Mine. It shall be Layla's dowry."
Olivia, who had remained silent until now, felt her breath catch for the briefest moment. She masked it well, but inside her, a strange mix of disbelief and something colder twisted in her chest. This man—this brother who had so fervently opposed the marriage—had just offered a fortune as a bridal gift?
Why?
But Olivia was not one to let herself be outdone. Her hand moved with practiced grace as she set a small, velvet-lined box before the Queen.
"And this," she said, her voice smooth, "is the Moon's Tear necklace. A wedding gift from the Duchy of Lucuron."
The room fell into a hushed awe. Even the crackling fireplace seemed to hold its breath.
The Moon's Tear—more legend than jewel—was known across kingdoms. A priceless heirloom passed down through generations of noblewomen, its sapphire centerpiece said to have been forged under a lunar eclipse. It was, in many ways, not just a treasure, but a symbol of legacy.
The Queen rose to her feet so quickly her chair groaned against the stone floor.
"How dare you," she hissed, eyes blazing as she pointed a trembling hand at Olivia. "That necklace belonged to my mother. You have no right to discard it so carelessly!"
Olivia didn't blink. Her voice was calm, cutting, final.
"With all due respect, Your Majesty," she said coolly, "I inherited it from my grandmother—your mother, yes, but she gave it to me. It is mine to do with as I wish. And I have chosen to give it to the future Queen."
There it was—checkmate.
The Queen's face paled. Her lips trembled, not with fear, but fury—the fury of a matriarch whose last weapon had been broken in her hand.
Without another word, she swept from the hall, her gown trailing behind her like a storm cloud. Doors flung open before her, and slammed shut in her wake.
Silence reigned in the aftermath.
All eyes turned to Olivia. Questions bloomed behind every pair of eyes—unspoken, uncertain—but she offered none of the answers they sought.
"I'm tired," she said simply, her voice quiet but absolute. "If you'll excuse me."
She turned, her steps light but unhurried. Kyle made a move as if to follow her, confusion etched deep into his features, but before he could say a word, Mathias stepped forward and blocked his path.
"Not now, Kyle," he said firmly. "Speak to her later. She needs rest."
Then, with a nod to the side, he addressed another.
"Isabella. See her to her chambers."
The younger woman rose, hesitating only for a breath, and followed after Olivia. The two disappeared into the corridor, their footsteps vanishing into silence.
They walked side by side, each carrying a thousand unanswered questions—about what had transpired that morning, and what had begun to unravel beneath the palace walls.