The vows had ended in serenity—or at least, so it seemed. The hall bloomed with celebration, music unfurling in graceful waves as couples took to the floor, their movements measured and elegant beneath the chandeliers. Others lingered at long tables heavy with silver platters, indulging in wine and delicate confections.
Far from the laughter and the clinking of glasses, Isabella had withdrawn into a quieter corner. Her husband had already drifted away, following Lord Matthius into a hushed conversation with Kyle. Left to herself, she reached for a goblet of crimson wine from a passing servant, its smooth surface cold against her fingers.
Just as she raised the cup, a sharp sound broke the air—a crystal shattering against stone. A young woman had stumbled, letting her drink slip from her hand. The wine cascaded in a sudden spill, staining the hem of Isabella's gown, a dark bloom spreading across the silk.
"Hey, you!" Isabella's voice cut through the music, taut with restrained fury. "You spilled wine on my dress. Do you not owe me an apology?"
The woman turned, her lips curling in a smile both mocking and cruel. Her jeweled fan flicked open with a lazy snap, stirring the perfumed air between them.
"What was that you said?" she drawled, her tone dripping disdain. "An apology? From me? And who are you, that I should lower myself so? Do you dare accuse me, the daughter of a proud house, when you—" her eyes glimmered with cruel amusement "—are nothing but the daughter of a fallen baron?"
Heat surged in Isabella's chest, her grip tightening on the stem of her glass. She willed herself to remain steady, to cage the storm of indignation clawing at her composure. Social rank, that invisible chain, had always weighed heavily on her shoulders. But she would not bow now.
"Miss Mill," Isabella said, her voice low yet unyielding. "Even if I am the daughter of a fallen baron, I stand here as the wife of the Marquis Loucron. Do not forget that. Now, you will apologize."
Laughter erupted—a sharp, cruel chorus that pricked at Isabella's pride like thorns. The girl's companions covered their mouths, giggling behind their jeweled fans, while Miss Mill threw her head back in mock delight.
"Marquis?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "Oh, how amusing! You truly make me laugh." With deliberate insolence, she tilted her fan and pressed its edge beneath Isabella's chin, forcing her to lift her gaze.
"Tell me," she whispered with venomous sweetness, "do you honestly believe he considers you his wife? Look around you—while every lady stands proudly at her husband's side, you linger here alone, abandoned. A marquis's wife? No, my dear… you are, and will always remain, nothing more than a disgraced noblewoman in a borrowed crown."
From across the hall, Olivia's sharp eyes caught sight of a peculiar commotion forming around Isabella. A cluster of jeweled fans fluttered, voices rising in suppressed laughter. Curiosity stirred within her, but more than that—boredom. No one in the hall dared approach her, let alone entertain her with conversation. She had been seated like a queen in exile, untouchable yet stifled. And so, she decided to relieve herself with a diversion.
Cradling little Ann for a final moment, she pressed the child into the arms of her nursemaid. "See to her," Olivia murmured, her smile deceptively sweet. Then, with the glide of a predator cloaked in silk, she crossed the marble floor toward the circle of girls.
"Pardon me, ladies," Olivia announced, her voice lilting with feigned courtesy, her lips curved in a mischievous smile.
The effect was immediate. The air tightened. The girl at the center—Miss Mill—stiffened, the arrogance on her face faltering as if she had been doused with cold water. "Ah… Duchess Olivia," she stammered, forcing a nervous curtsy. "What an honor to—"
But her words were cut short by the sharp, ringing crack of a slap. The sound reverberated like thunder across the hall. Gasps echoed. Miss Mill reeled backward, stumbling before collapsing to the floor, her cheek flaming red beneath the glow of candlelight.
She clutched her face, eyes brimming with tears that spilled over despite her desperate attempt at composure. "My lady…! Lady Loucron, why—why would you do such a thing?" Her voice trembled with shock, with humiliation.
Olivia did not answer immediately. Instead, she raised one delicate hand, summoning a passing servant whose tray glittered with glasses of wine. The young man approached swiftly, bowing his head, the crystal quivering in his hands.
Olivia's smile deepened, wicked and unhurried. She plucked a glass from the tray, holding it aloft so the crimson liquid shimmered like blood beneath the chandeliers.
Olivia's lips curved into a faint smile as she raised her hand, signaling the attendant who balanced a tray of wine glasses. He approached swiftly, eager to please. When he stopped at her side, she leaned toward him, her eyes gleaming with mischief, and spoke with a voice sharp enough to cut:
"Well, well… the daughter of a fallen baron, wasn't that what you called her?" Her smile widened into a smirk. "I see no one more fallen in this hall than you."
With that, she spilled a glass of crimson wine and, without hesitation, emptied it over her rival. But Olivia did not stop there—she throw another, then another, until the rich, dark liquid drenched Miss Mill entirely, staining her gown like blood seeping into silk. Every pair of eyes in the room followed the spectacle in stunned silence.
Olivia tilted her head, regarding her work as though she were an artist assessing her canvas. "Miss mill," she said coolly, her voice echoing through the hall, "you really must change your dress."
A sharp burst of clapping broke the silence, startling many. From the far end of the room, a voice called with mock enthusiasm, "Well done, Your Grace. What bravery, to defend your sister-in-law so gallantly! What marvelous friends you two make."
It was Elvira. She clapped with a brightness that felt poisonous, her eyes glittering with a sweetness too deliberate, too false—like honey concealing the bitterness of venom.
Gliding closer, she leaned in toward Olivia, her perfume cloying, her words dripping with insinuation. "I never imagined you wandering the duchy, making allies… even defending them. How very charming."
Olivia's face hardened; her smile faded into a scowl. "What are you trying to say, Elvira?"
Elvira's fingers toyed lazily with a lock of her hair, twirling it before bringing it close to her lips as if savoring some secret thought. "Hmm… what would suit her best, I wonder? Blue blossoms? Or perhaps violets to crown her beauty? Don't you think so, my dear sister?"
A thousand unspoken questions darted through Olivia's mind, but she chose silence, unwilling to let Elvira entangle her in riddles. All that mattered was that she leave—soon, and far from them. Olivia turned to address her again, but the moment slipped away; instead of Elvira, she found herself confronted with the imposing figures of Kael, the Queen , and beside them, Mathias himself.
From across the room, Olivia caught sight of Isabella slipping away, her wine-stained gown trailing behind her, Leon at her side like a silent shadow.
The Queen's voice cut the air, stern and uncompromising. "Olivia. You will follow me."
Olivia's thoughts turned dark, her jaw tightening. Perfect. Exactly what I needed—the harlot decides to appear now.
She whispered under her breath, words meant for no one but the Queen her self, as the Queen's gaze bore down on her like judgment from the heavens.