She sat at the edge of the armchair, teacup trembling between her fingers. The liquid inside had long since cooled, but she kept sipping out of habit, out of nerves. Every word she had heard earlier still pulsed in her ears like a low, persistent drum. The room felt too close, the air too heavy.
Then, unexpectedly, a hand rested on her shoulder — firm but not harsh. A thumb began to knead the knot at the base of her neck, the pressure slow and deliberate. She startled, twisting slightly to look back.
"You've been tense since this morning," Mathias murmured behind her, his breath brushing her hair. "Your shoulders are hard as stone. Let me massage them — it'll do you good."
A faint laugh escaped her, light and brittle. "I'm not tense, Mathias. You're imagining things."
He stopped, walked around the chair, and sank onto the sofa beside her. His eyes searched her face, steady and questioning. "Then why did you slip away this morning? You disappeared like a thief at dawn."
"I didn't slip away," she said, setting the cup down with exaggerated care. "I just had things to do."
"Things?" he echoed with a raised brow. "I'll try to believe you. But tell me — what business did the Duchess of Tharon have here? She stayed long past midday. Did she upset you somehow?"
Olivia turned to him, genuine surprise flickering across her face. "How did you even know it was the Duchess?"
Mathias tilted his head, smirking faintly. "Do you take me for a fool? You think I don't know who walks into my house? Veils, false names — none of it hides her from me."
She hesitated, then shrugged. "She came only to greet me, that's all. But… can you keep her visit a secret?"
His eyes softened. "Why would I tell anyone something that concerns you? Don't worry. No one knows."
A silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but weighty, like a pause before a question. Finally he looked away, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve.
"If you've finished all these mysterious errands of yours," he said, "would you mind coming out with me this evening?"
"Out?" she asked, a note of confusion in her voice. "Where?"
"Nowhere far. Just into the city. You could shop for dresses, or… whatever you like."
She didn't quite understand what he was hinting at, but to avoid another round of questions about the Duchess, she nodded. "All right."
Mathias rose smoothly, a quiet confidence in his smile. "Good. Get yourself ready then. I'll finish my work, and we'll go."
"Yes," she murmured, already retreating toward her room.
Inside, she found Isabella and Kira waiting. "You two again?" Olivia said, feigning surprise. "Why are you still here?"
Isabella glared, her hands busy with a rag. "Because some people ran off to sip tea while I'm left cleaning up their mess."
"Oh," Olivia said, blinking. She had completely forgotten. "Well, keep at it then. The best time to dispose of a body is at night anyway."
Isabella planted her fists on her hips. "Keep at it? Come here and help me! You talk as if you're going somewhere far."
Olivia threw herself onto the couch with a soft groan. "Actually, Mathias asked me out. I don't know where he's taking me. So I can't help you. I'm going to nap now. Wake me when he arrives."
She shut her eyes and leaned back. She barely registered Isabella and Kira looming over her until Isabella shook her, hard.
"You—are you insane? Sleeping now?"
Olivia's voice was lazy, almost playful. "And what am I supposed to do?"
Isabella's eyes narrowed. "Do you really not get it?"
"Get what?"
"Gods, I didn't think you'd be so dense when it comes to matters of the heart. It's obvious he's inviting you to a date. A date, Olivia. Don't you understand?"
"A date?" Olivia blinked. "And if it is, so what? Let me sleep."
"No," Isabella snapped. "You're not sleeping. You're getting ready for your date. Didn't you say you wanted to be the perfect wife one day? Well, this time you'll do exactly as I tell you."
Kira laughed softly at the sight of Olivia's baffled expression. The room, which only moments ago had been heavy with secrets and confessions, now brimmed with a different kind of tension — the quiet thrill of something unexpected, a new current slipping beneath the weight of the old.
Isabella and Kira paid no mind to Olivia's sighs or muttered complaints. They worked around her like artists absorbed in their craft: Kira with a brush poised delicately in her fingers, layering soft shades over Olivia's cheeks, coaxing color into her lips, smoothing the darkness around her eyes until they seemed deeper, brighter, almost dangerous; Isabella with an eagle's eye on the wardrobe, pulling gown after gown with little patience for protest.
One dress. Then another. Ten at least. Each more elaborate, more dazzling than the last. Olivia thought she might collapse beneath the weight of velvet and silk. Yet there was something different about this trial compared to her father's house. There, she had always been forced into dull, lifeless garments — dowdy things meant to ensure she never outshone Vira. Here, in this room, she was not the shadow to another woman's light. She was the center. Every fabric, every jewel, every touch was meant for her.
At last her eyes lingered on a gown that seemed to breathe with its own pulse: a narrow scarlet dress, shoulders bare, the silk clinging to her figure before cascading like liquid flame. Its back was daringly low, her skin left unhidden, vulnerable and defiant all at once. Olivia drew in a breath. "I think… I'll choose this one. The color—it's beautiful."
Isabella's lips curved slyly. "Beautiful indeed." Then she shot Kira a look, a mischievous glint in her eye. "It seems someone has decided to be dangerous tonight."
Olivia flushed at the suggestion, a nervous laugh escaping her. "Then I'll take a white silk shawl," she said, as if the added layer might cloak her sudden boldness.
When the last pin was fastened and the final sweep of powder applied, Olivia barely recognized herself in the mirror. She was no longer the girl who bore bruises in silence or shrank in plain gowns. The figure staring back was sharper, radiant, seductive even.
A knock rapped against the door. The three froze for a heartbeat before Kira darted to open it.
Mathias stood there. Not in his ceremonial attire nor the stiff regalia of noble gatherings, but in something infinitely more disarming: a tailored suit of dark cloth, simple yet impeccably cut. It lent him elegance without extravagance. His coat hung casually over one arm, as though even his formality bowed to ease tonight.
The moment his eyes found Olivia, his composure fractured. A smile—unguarded, genuine—spread across his mouth before he could stop it. His gaze swept over her in quiet awe, lingering too long, as though trying to memorize her in this very form. Only then did he notice Isabella and Kira standing watch at her side. He cleared his throat, lowering his eyes in polite restraint.
"I see you're ready," he said at last, his voice softened in spite of himself. "Shall we?"
"Yes," Olivia replied, unable to stop her own small smile. "Let's go."
They stepped into the corridor together, and Mathias's hand brushed hers before entwining with it fully. Their joined fingers felt both inevitable and daring, a proclamation without words.
As they walked through the great hall, servants halted mid-step, their eyes wide, mouths slightly open. Whispers followed in their wake like trailing ribbons. It was not scandal they witnessed, nor mere curiosity—it was the startling sight of beauty unveiled, noble and unshaken, the kind that demanded reverence.
When they finally reached the carriage waiting outside, Olivia's heart pounded with a strange mixture of dread and exhilaration.
The carriage rocked gently as the horses trotted through the lamplit streets. Inside, silence lingered, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken. Olivia sat with her hands folded in her lap, gaze drifting past the glass window. Yet every so often, she felt his eyes upon her—brief glances stolen between breaths. Mathias's expression was strangely at ease, softer than the stern mask he so often wore. It unsettled her, though not unpleasantly.
Minutes passed, and the carriage slowed as they reached the city's heart. The glow of taverns, the chatter of merchants, the laughter of children spilled into the night air. When the door opened, Mathias was the first to step down. He extended his hand to her, steady, firm. She took it and descended, expecting him to release her. But he did not. Even as the crowd pressed around them, even as they walked forward, his hand remained locked with hers. For once, she did not resist.
"Is there anywhere you'd like to go?" he asked, tilting his head toward her. "Clothes? Trinkets? Something new?"
She blinked at him, incredulous. "You brought me here without even deciding where we're going?"
His lips curved in a half-smile, amused. "Don't start with your sulks, Olivia. Tell me instead—what's something you've never tried, something you've always wanted to?"
Her eyes wandered past the polished façades to the narrow, noisy lanes of the poorer quarter. There, life seemed unshackled. Children darted barefoot between the stalls. Women laughed loudly, not fearing who heard them. Men drank freely, unbothered by decorum. They were no dukes, no duchesses—just people, alive. For a fleeting moment, Olivia longed to step into their world, to shrug off the suffocating weight of noble blood.
Mathias noticed her stare. Without a word, he tugged her gently and began steering her toward the center of town.
"Where are we going?" she asked, slightly breathless from keeping up.
He looked over his shoulder, mischief glinting in his eyes. "To a wedding."
"A wedding?" she repeated, startled.
"One of my soldiers is marrying tonight. A man of the commons. He invited me, but I declined earlier. I thought it improper. But since we're here… would you mind if we attended?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, of course not. If we're already here, let's go and offer our congratulations. But—wait—what are you doing?"
He had suddenly veered toward a glittering storefront, guiding her into a jeweler's shop.
"Mathias, why are we here?"
"Do you expect me to arrive at a man's wedding empty-handed?" His tone was teasing, but his eyes held purpose.
Her heart gave a curious leap. "Then let me choose something for them." She moved toward a case lined with diamonds and pearls, her fingers grazing the glass. "This necklace," she murmured, pointing to a delicate chain, "would suit the bride beautifully with her gown. And this pin—" she lifted a silver piece shaped like a falcon, "—for the groom. It would make a fine pair, don't you think?"
She turned to seek his approval, but found him staring—not at the jewels, but at her. His gaze lingered as though the sight of her absorbed every thought he might have voiced.
"Hey," she said, flustered. "I asked for your opinion."
He blinked, as if waking from a spell, and cleared his throat. "Yes. They'll do nicely."
They purchased the gifts, and soon enough the sounds of celebration drew them to a brightly lit courtyard strung with garlands. Music spilled through the night, and laughter rolled like thunder. Yet the moment Mathias entered, conversation stilled. Heads turned, and then, all at once, cheer erupted.
The groom rushed forward with several companions at his side, his face radiant with disbelief. "My lord! We never dreamed you would come—it is an honor beyond words!" He turned, shouting to the crowd. "Everyone, the Duke himself has come to my wedding!"
Shouts of joy followed, and people clapped, voices ringing with unfeigned delight. Olivia, however, lingered a step behind him, her head lowered, her heart tight. Among the Duke's knights and soldiers, she was a figure of disdain, the shadowed name no one dared to speak kindly. She wished to vanish, to keep to the safety of Mathias's back.
But he turned, reached for her, and pulled her forward into the light.
"She came with me," he announced, his voice steady, almost proud. "My wife joins me in celebrating your wedding."
The crowd froze. Smiles faltered. The warmth that had filled their faces drained into stiffness, then into fear. Like a ripple across water, unease spread. The joyous air thickened with dread.
And then, as if struck by one command, they bowed. Voices fell in unison:
"Our greetings to you, Your Grace.