Perfect. Just what I needed—the viper herself slithering into the evening, Olivia thought bitterly, biting back a groan.
She moved to obey, but Matthius's hand caught her wrist, halting her. "Shall I come with you?" he asked, his tone unusually hesitant.
"What?" she whispered, startled by his concern. For the briefest instant, memory betrayed her—the last time they had spoken, the rawness in his eyes, the heaviness in his words. She shook it off quickly and slipped her hand from his grasp. "No. There's no need to worry."
With that, she followed the Queen down the gilded corridors of the palace. The air grew colder with each step, the echo of her heels swallowed by the silence that wrapped around them like a noose.
The door closed behind them with a heavy thud. And then—
The crack of a slap split the stillness. The force of it snapped Olivia's head to the side, the sting blooming across her cheek, her lower lip splitting under the blow. Blood welled, metallic and hot, at the corner of her mouth.
Slowly, she straightened, her smile sharp with annoyance rather than pain. "I expected nothing less from you, old woman."
The Queen's hand rose again, but this time Olivia caught it midair, her grip unyielding. Her voice was low, mocking, each word laced with venom. "Ha. Shall I break your hand here, Your Majesty?" She pressed her tongue deliberately against the title, drawing it out like a taunt.
The Queen yanked her hand back with a sneer. "How utterly without manners you are. You come to your brother's wedding, and not only do you manipulate him into marrying a girl beneath him, you now create scandals that humiliate the royal family."
Olivia wiped the blood from her lip with a languid sweep of her thumb, her eyes gleaming with defiance. "And whose fault is it, I wonder, that I was never taught proper manners? Tell me, when did I ever have a mother to raise me?"
The Queen's teeth clenched, her jaw tight with fury. "Ungrateful creature. You are the very image of your father. A disgrace. It is impossible for a thing like you to be my daughter."
Olivia laughed then—a bitter, mocking sound that rang against the walls. "Ha! And it is just as impossible for a reptile like you to be my mother. Do not delude yourself. Wearing a crown does not give you the right to spit on me."
Their gazes locked, fire against ice, mother and daughter bound by blood yet divided by contempt deeper than any chasm.
"You wretched whore," the Queen spat, her voice trembling with venom. "How dare you insult me, you insolent child? What else could I expect from the daughter of that vile man? Do not raise your voice at me merely because you wear the title of duchess now. I only wish you had died the day you were born."
The words struck deep, slicing through Olivia's composure like knives. For a moment, her chest burned with the weight of them. But then—her lips curved into a cruel, dangerous smile.
"Do you know what truly stood high that night?" she whispered, lifting her chin. "Your legs. The very night you lay with my father, while you were still promised to the King."
The Queen's face blanched, horror flashing across her features. Rage answered horror in a heartbeat. Another slap came—sudden, fierce—crashing against Olivia's cheek. Her head snapped to the side, strands of hair spilling loose, but she did not flinch. She lifted her hand to push the hair back with cold elegance, her eyes burning with defiance.
"Oh? Did my words wound you?" Her tone was mocking, soft as silk yet sharper than steel. "If you are a whore, then it follows, does it not, that I am the daughter of one as well. Isn't that so… Mother?"
The smile that followed was wicked, deliberate.
The Queen staggered back a step, her own hand trembling—the very hand that had just struck. She stood frozen, stunned into silence, her eyes wide as though she had glimpsed something monstrous. For an instant, she seemed stripped of her grandeur, her mask torn away. And then, unable to withstand the weight of her daughter's words, she turned on her heel and fled the room.
Tears shimmered in her eyes, betraying the wound Olivia's cruelty had left. Her steps were quick, her dignity unraveling as she clutched the hand that had delivered the blows.
Outside, at the corner of the corridor, Matthius stood waiting. He had intended to respect Olivia's wish for privacy with her mother, though unease had gnawed at him. Now he watched, startled, as the Queen swept past him, her face pale, her hand reddened, her composure fractured. The sight confirmed his worst fears.
Without hesitation, he pushed through the door.
There she was. Olivia. Her cheeks burned crimson, not only from anger but from the imprints of her mother's hand. A thin trickle of blood stained the corner of her mouth. She looked both fierce and fragile, like glass scorched in fire.
"Olivia—" he began softly, reaching out a hand to her.
But she recoiled at once, her voice sharp, trembling with pride. "Don't touch me. We're leaving. Now."
He hesitated. "Should we not stay until tomorrow, for the others?"
Her hair fell forward like a curtain as she lowered her face, hiding the trembling at her lips. "They have their own carriage. Let them use it. We are leaving this instant."
Matthius studied her, noting how desperately she tried to conceal herself, her dignity stitched together by sheer will. He spoke gently, almost coaxing: "Then let us slip out the back. It will spare you the stares."
She gave no reply, only silence. So, without another word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
"Better this," he said softly, "than hiding behind your hair."
For the first time that night, Olivia let out a long breath, one that trembled between exhaustion and surrender. She clutched the coat closer to her, its weight oddly comforting.
"…This is better," she murmured, her voice low. "Thank you."
Without warning, he pulled her firmly into his arms, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. Shock widened her eyes, her voice rising in disbelief. "What are you doing, sir?"
"Better to pretend you're unwell," Matthius replied coolly, his tone devoid of hesitation. "That way, they will believe we had no choice but to leave early."
At once she understood, and though her pride protested, Olivia allowed herself to sink against him, feigning frailty. Yet as he carried her down the long corridor toward the rear doors of the palace, her breathing began to change—slower, deeper, until it was no longer a performance. She had truly fallen asleep, her head resting against his chest with the unguarded heaviness of exhaustion.
By the time they reached the carriage, Matthius hesitated. Should he wake her, rouse her dignity so she could climb inside on her own? Or should he spare her the shame of being seen so vulnerable? After a long moment of deliberation, he simply gathered her closer and stepped inside, keeping her cradled in his lap as the carriage wheels rolled them back toward the duchy.
She did not stir once, not even when the lantern light flickered across her bruised cheek. He only tightened his hold, silent and steady, until the journey ended.
It was not until the metallic clatter of tools echoed through the chamber—steel against steel—that Olivia stirred awake. Blinking, disoriented, she realized she was no longer in the carriage but in Matthius's own room. Her gown was still on, though the corset had been loosened and cast aside.
"Why… why did you not take me to my chambers?" she asked, her voice raw with confusion.
Matthius did not meet her eyes. His hands busied themselves with the small array of bottles and instruments laid neatly upon a tray. "My room was closer," he answered evenly. "And I do not know where your medicines are kept."
"Medicines?" she echoed softly, startled.
He turned at last, approaching with a strip of cotton and a pair of slender tweezers. Sitting beside her, he cupped her face with a gentleness at odds with his rigid voice. "Hold still," he murmured. "I'll apply the salve. If it stings, squeeze my hand."
At first, she felt nothing. But soon the sharp burn of the ointment seared her skin, and her fingers instinctively dug into his palm, her nails pressing crescents into his flesh.
"Tch," he muttered under his breath. "Enough. Don't complain—bear it."
When it was done, he wrapped two cool compresses carefully around her swollen cheek, adjusting them with meticulous care. His eyes, dark and searching, lingered on her face. Then his voice, low and steady, broke the silence.
"…Did she strike you again?"
The question hung in the air unanswered. Silence was her only reply, heavier than any confession.
He waited, then asked again, softer this time. "Are you all right?"
Her lips trembled. She tried to keep her composure, but her mother's cruel words returned to her, cutting deeper than the sting of any slap. Her eyes blurred, and before she could stop herself, tears spilled over.
Unable to speak, Olivia buried her face in his chest, her body trembling with silent sobs. She cried not with wails, but with a suffocating quiet, as though shame forbade her from giving voice to her grief.
Matthius said nothing. He simply wrapped one arm around her, the other smoothing her hair with quiet patience. His hand moved in slow, steady strokes down her back, a silent vow of comfort. He did not ask more, did not press. He only remained, holding her as her silent storm broke.