"Are you finished?" Olivia's voice was cool, almost detached, carrying no trace of sympathy.
Isabella faltered, hastily gathering herself. For so long she had convinced herself that their bond was nothing more than a fragile alliance, a companionship of convenience—two shadows waiting for the fall of the mighty Tharons. Yet now, in Olivia's steady, unblinking presence, she began to feel something far closer, far heavier.
Olivia reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief, offering it with a careless grace. Then, with a gesture almost tender, she brushed her fingers against Isabella's cheek.
"You cry like a child," she murmured, her eyes sharp despite the softness of the touch. "One day you'll learn this crying will serve you nothing. Cry all you want—weep until your lungs give out—but unless you face the problem itself, your tears will never end."
"I... I just don't understand," Isabella whispered, her voice trembling, "how they could do that to a child. you were barely ten years old…"
Olivia tilted her head, expression unreadable, her gaze heavy with disinterest.
"Ha. Yes. They did many things. And yes, I cried. I cried until madness pressed against the edges of my mind. Hallucinations haunted me, voices echoing in every dark corner. But pity?" A sharp laugh broke from her lips. "Do not waste it on me. None of those servants are alive anymore. Not one."
Isabella swallowed hard, fear tightening her throat. "W-what do you mean?"
Olivia's lips curved, not into a smile but into something colder, crueler—mocking.
"I killed them, of course. Every last one of them. What else could I have done? They named me a monster and treated me as one. I merely proved them right."
She rose and crossed to the fireplace, the firelight painting her silhouette in shifting amber and shadow. One by one she fed logs into the flames, as though each piece of wood were a memory she was eager to see consumed.
"Do you know, Isabella," she said quietly, almost dreamily, "the sound of their screams as they burned in the great hall? To me, it was music—a jubilant hymn, a celebration. It was the only song the Tharon estate ever gave me."
Her eyes glowed in the firelight, distant yet sharp. "Of course, my father and dear Elvira were untouchable. I couldn't get near them, not by a single step. And I was foolish, wasn't I? Begging for love that was never there. All I ever wanted was for them to look at me. Just once. Just for a heartbeat."
Isabella's gaze lingered on Olivia, her expression caught between pity and dread. She could not decide—was her heart moved by the suffering Olivia had endured, or was it trembling before the darkness that clung to her like a shadow?
"I know you suffered at the hands of the servants," Isabella said at last, her voice tentative, "but don't you think… burning them was perhaps too much?"
A faint, sorrowful smile touched Olivia's lips. "Hmm. You truly are kind, Isabella. Too kind, perhaps. And yes—maybe you're right. Perhaps mere bullying was not enough reason to kill them all." She bit her lower lip, pain flashing briefly across her face before she continued, her tone dropping to something almost confessional.
"Normally, I would have stayed silent. But today… today I feel suffocated, as though my chest can no longer hold the weight. You've heard stories of my family before, I'm sure. But let me tell you why, beyond the torment of childhood, I chose to burn those wretched creatures."
Her eyes grew distant, as if she were staring not at Isabella, but into the corridors of memory.
"Forget the age of ten. Let us move forward to when I was fourteen. It was then I had my first bleeding. Of course, I had no maid, no one to guide me. That day I wandered the halls of the estate, confused, terrified, while everyone pointed fingers, whispering and laughing. At last, one servant took pity and explained the matter to me, told me what to do. I shut myself away for a week afterward, too mortified to step outside my chamber. As if being branded a monster were not enough, I was now a shameless creature as well."
Her voice grew sharp, tinged with venom. "And then my body began to change. I was no longer a child but becoming a woman. Naturally, Elvira did not fail to notice. And instead of locking me in a room with a corpse, she devised something… new. Something more inventive."
Olivia's lips twisted as she mimicked her sister's tone, her words dripping with cruel mimicry:
'Maid, strip her bare—now.'
"She ordered it with a smile hidden coyly behind her fan. I did not resist; what point was there? Usually she had me beaten without reason, so I expected nothing different. But this time…" Olivia's breath hitched, her eyes darkening as if she were reliving it.
"This time Elvira herself took the leash, binding it around my leg as though I were nothing more than an animal. Then she laughed… oh, how she laughed. And as she turned away she whispered, 'Sleep well, sister.'"
Olivia fell silent, her words hanging like smoke in the air, suffocating and bitter.
Olivia had not understood what Elvira meant. She had simply been left there—naked, trembling, the cold air biting her skin. An hour crawled by in silence until at last the door groaned open. She thought, in her naivety, that Elvira had returned. But it was not Elvira.
It was the servants.
Confusion seized her as they closed in, their shadows blotting out the firelight. Then hands—rough, greedy hands—began to wander across her body, exploring every inch as though she were some lifeless thing, a doll of flesh to be passed around.
"Careful," one of them hissed. "Leave her virginity intact, or we'll find ourselves in trouble."
Their filthy laughter filled the room as mouths pressed against her skin, as foul kisses and tainted caresses smothered her. Her body, still untouched by life's cruelties until now, felt desecrated, ruined. Disgust welled up within her, a poison so bitter she could hardly breathe. She wanted to claw herself open and escape the prison of her own flesh.
And then—the click of heels.
Elvira appeared, framed in the doorway like a queen returning to her throne. From the floor, Olivia's broken voice reached for her: "Elvira… Elvira, help me, please!"
Elvira's eyes swept the scene, not with pity but with revulsion. "Enough," she snapped. "Get out." Her voice cracked like a whip, and the servants scattered, muttering like curs driven from a carcass. Not out of mercy—never mercy—but because, to her, the spectacle had become too grotesque, too animal.
She tossed a white robe at Olivia, the fabric falling limply over her bruised skin. "You disgust me. I have never loved you, Olivia, and I never will. Unfortunately, Father forbids me from killing you. But…" Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "I've thought of something better."
Her eyes roamed over Olivia's body with mocking precision, as though inspecting livestock. "Be my dog, Olivia. Quickly now—say the words."
Olivia hesitated, still half-paralyzed from what had just been done to her. But Elvira's glare, sharp and merciless, left her no choice. She forced the sound through her throat, broken and humiliating: "Woof… woof."
Laughter exploded from Elvira, rich and venomous. Then she drew a dagger, its silver edge catching the light, and pressed it into Olivia's hand. "I've slipped something into their wine. The vermin will be fast asleep by now. This won't be difficult." Her smile deepened. "Think of it as your first task, my little hound."
Olivia's hand shook violently around the hilt, but Elvira's voice cut through her fear like steel. "Why tremble? This is nothing. Dispose of them. Father must never know."
So Olivia went, dragging behind her the weight of shame, the blade cold against her palm. Just as Elvira had promised, the servants lay scattered, slumbering, their breaths heavy with poisoned dreams. She hovered at first, torn between horror and obedience. But then—then she remembered their hands, their laughter, the filth they had carved into her soul.
Her hesitation broke.
The dagger slid across the first throat, and then another, and another, crimson staining her pale fingers. What began with trembling soon gave way to something else—an exultation, a terrible joy. Her lips curled as she worked, her heart pounding like war drums. The fire within her, once shame, now burned as triumph.
When it was done, the furnace became her ally. The flames devoured the corpses eagerly, their crackling song rising like a choir. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, and to Olivia, it was not grotesque—it was symphony.
She listened to the music of their destruction and thought, with a dark thrill, that she would give anything to hear her sister's and her father's screams woven into that same melody.
But for now, she remained a hound on Elvira's leash—alive only because death had not yet been permitted to claim her.
From that day onward, Elvira exploited her endlessly, forcing Olivia again and again into the filth of her schemes.
When her story finally reached its end, Isabella could no longer bear to meet her gaze. The weight of Olivia's suffering pressed upon her like a physical force, suffocating.
"Isabella," Olivia said at last, her voice calm but edged with steel, "perhaps your father was not wealthy, and perhaps you never lived surrounded by opulence. Yet what you had was still a life—a true life. It shaped you into what you are now. For me, life has never been anything but a prison, a fire without end. To survive, I had to become what they called me: a monster. And if survival required blood, then I spilled blood. In the past, I endured in silence. I had nowhere to run, no ally, no escape. But now?" Her eyes burned, sharp with vengeance. "Now nothing will stop me from crushing them—my father, Elvira—all of them. I will make them taste every fragment of the torment they fed me. I will see it through, Isabella, until my very last breath."
Silence stretched between them. Isabella lowered her eyes, knowing that every word rang with truth. To oppose her would be a lie. Instead she whispered, softly but firmly, "You're right, Olivia. They must pay the price."
At that, Olivia's lips curved into a smile—not of joy, but of recognition. "Finally," she murmured, "you understand me." She leaned back with a sigh, as if releasing a burden long carried.
"Well," she said, voice gentler now, "we each have our reasons, don't we? But enough of mine. Tell me, Isabella—why have you been avoiding Matthias? Did something happen between you?"
Olivia's eyes widened. "You never stop with your questions, do you?"
Isabella smirked, unbothered. "Yes, yes. And you, as always, try to dance around them."
For a moment, Olivia hesitated, her usual composure faltering. Then, with a low breath, she confessed: "The truth is… I can no longer pretend to be a normal wife. Not after my visit to the graveyard. Even though I was not the one who killed the late duchess, my family's hands are stained with it. And every time I look into Matthias's eyes, I see the shadow of what I have taken from him. Twice over, Isabella—I've made him an orphan twice."
Isabella reached out, her tone soft, almost pleading. "No, Olivia. You had no hand in the duchess's death. You cannot blame yourself for that. But what do you mean, twice? I don't understand."
Olivia's gaze locked with hers, unwavering, heavy with the weight of the unspeakable. At last she released it, cold and brutal: "Isabella… I killed the former Duke of Luceron."
The words had barely left her lips when the door creaked open. Both women froze, their hearts seizing with dread.
There he was.
Matthias stood tall in the doorway, his figure dark against the hall beyond. His expression was unreadable, his presence overwhelming.
Olivia's blood ran cold. "Since when… how much did you hear?" Her voice shook, betraying the fear she fought to hide.
Matthias's eyes met hers, unwavering, filled with something between grief and fury. His voice was steady, merciless:
"From the moment you said you were not to blame for my mother's death… and that you killed my father, the Duke before me."