"I beg your pardon? Did Your Grace say something?" Isabella's voice rang out with a forced, melodic cheerfulness that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Olivia leaned back into the velvet upholstery of her chair, her posture radiating a calculated grace. A cold, predatory glint flickered in her gaze. "Ah, so that is how we shall play this? Pretense and masks?"
"I'm afraid I'm still at a loss as to your meaning, Your Grace," Isabella replied, her hands steady as she reached for her tea, though the air between them had grown heavy with unspoken threats.
Without a word, Olivia reached into the hidden pocket of her silk gown and produced a heavy parchment envelope. She placed it on the marble table between them with a deliberate, soft thud. There, pressed into the wax, was the unmistakable seal of a butterfly—intricate, delicate, and damning.
"Does this perhaps serve to jog your failing memory?" Olivia asked, her voice a low purr.
Isabella glanced at the letter, her expression a mask of polite confusion. "I still don't understand. Do you require me to deliver this tomorrow?"
"You truly are a master of manipulation, Isabella. I must admit, I underestimated the depth of your cunning." Olivia leaned forward, her shadow falling across the table. "What if I were to break this seal and read the contents aloud, right here, right now?"
Isabella gave a dismissive shrug, though her pulse began to thrum against her collarbone. "I don't know why you're addressing me with such hostility. You may do as you please, Your Grace. It is your letter, after all."
A slow, wicked smile curled Olivia's lips. "And when exactly did I say this was a letter?"
Isabella swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making it difficult to maintain her composure. "Then... whose is it?"
"Mmm, I imagined you would recognize it best, Isabella," Olivia whispered, her eyes locking onto her opponent's. "Considering it was tucked away so securely at the bottom of your jewelry box."
The sound of shattering crystal echoed through the room as the glass slipped from Isabella's trembling fingers. She scrambled to clear the shards, a frantic effort to hide her sudden loss of control, but Olivia was faster. She leaned in, her breath cold against Isabella's ear.
"Stop the theatrics. I know exactly what you are."
The Unholy Alliance
The two women settled back into their seats, the shattered glass a testament to the shattered peace. A sharp, mocking smile suddenly transformed Isabella's face, the mask of the 'innocent lady' finally falling away.
"And then what?" Isabella challenged, her voice now edged with steel. "Even if you know, what changes? Do you truly believe you can threaten me? Who would believe the word of the 'Wicked Duchess' against the beloved, gentle Isabella?"
Olivia took a slow, leisurely sip of her wine, her confidence unshaken. "Threaten you? Heavens, no. You are quite right—no one would take my side. They would never believe I am anything but a villain, nor would they believe you are anything but a saint."
"Then why this charade?"
"Curiosity," Olivia mused, swirling the crimson liquid in her glass. "Simple, raw curiosity."
"Curiosity? From you, Olivia? Speak plainly. What is it you truly want?"
"I will tell you my price," Olivia said, her eyes turning sharp, "once you tell me one thing."
"And that is?"
"Why?"
Isabella frowned. "Why... what?"
"Why are you leaking the Duchy's secrets?" Olivia's voice was blunt now, stripped of its poetic veneer. "For me, the motive is clear. I am my father's daughter; treason is in my blood. I can betray my husband without a second thought. But you, Isabella? You, who supposedly worships the very ground your husband walks upon?"
"Nonsense," Isabella hissed, her eyes flashing with a spark of hidden pain. "It is a political marriage, nothing more. Just like yours."
Olivia let out a soft, hollow laugh. "A political marriage, yes. I don't deny that. But the eyes never lie, my dear. You look at him with the same desperate longing that Leila looks at Kyle. You cannot deceive me. So, tell me... why destroy the man you love?"
Isabella reached for the decanter, her movements stiff. She poured the wine until the crimson liquid threatened to spill over the rim of her glass. "Since you are so persistent, I shall tell you. You would have unearthed the truth eventually, even without my confession."
"A wise girl," Olivia remarked, her tone dry. "Speak then. I have endured many tedious stories lately; let us see if yours holds more flavor."
Isabella exhaled slowly, a long, shuddering breath as if she were gathering the scattered pieces of her soul. "I had no choice."
"No choice?" Olivia leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "A convenient phrase, Isabella. What does it mean in your world?"
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, until it was broken by Isabella's ragged whisper. "My father... he is holding my father prisoner."
A sudden, sharp chill seemed to settle in the room. Olivia's expression darkened, the mockery vanishing from her face. "Explain yourself."
"Two years ago," Isabella began, her voice trembling, "my father owed a debt to your father. He went to the Duke's estate to settle it, to plead for time. He never returned. He has been kept in the shadows of your father's dungeons ever since. Of course, no one cared about the disappearance of a fallen nobleman. Your father saw an opportunity—he turned me into his pawn, his eyes and ears within these walls."
The confession hung in the air like a suspended blade. Olivia's grip tightened on her crystal glass. She knew her father's reputation well; he was a man who harvested lives to sow his ambitions. Isabella's father was merely another head of grain to be crushed.
"All those visits to your family home..." Olivia murmured as the realization dawned on her. "They were nothing but a cover, weren't they?"
"Yes," Isabella choked out.
The silence returned, heavier than before. Then, Olivia tilted her head. "Describe him to me."
Isabella blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"You say he is my father's guest. I am intimately familiar with the faces in his dungeons. Tell me how he looks."
Isabella hesitated, her eyes searching Olivia's for a trap. "He has a scar. A jagged, prominent scar... across his face."
The memory hit Olivia like a physical blow. A man with chestnut hair, weary green eyes, and that unmistakable mark of violence across his cheek. She had seen him.
Suddenly, the composed Isabella collapsed. She fell to her knees, her fingers clawing at the fine silk of Olivia's skirts. Her breath came in jagged gasps, and her eyes, once so bright with artifice, were now drowning in tears.
"Please..." she sobbed, "tell me. Is he alive? I haven't seen him in two years. I only need to know... does he still breathe?"
For the first time, Olivia did not have a sharp retort. She looked down at the woman at her feet, seeing a raw, primal despair that was almost too painful to witness.
"He is in a safe place," Olivia said finally, her voice softer than it had ever been. "He... he spoke of you often."
A single, crystalline tear tracked down Isabella's cheek. "Thank God..."
Minutes passed before Isabella regained a semblance of control. Shaking, she rose and smoothed her dress, returning to her seat with a ghost of her former dignity. "I apologize, Your Grace. That was... unseemly."
Olivia set her glass down with a definitive click. "No apologies. Now, let us return to business. You have been sending reports to my father."
A dark, knowing spark flickered in Olivia's eyes. That old devil, she thought bitterly. I was his Plan A, and Isabella was his backup. He always plays both sides of the coin.
"He promised me," Isabella admitted, "that he would release my father after three years."
Three years.
The number struck Olivia with the force of a thunderbolt. Three years—the exact timeline he had given her to dismantle the LeCron family. Everything had been choreographed from the beginning.
A new thought took root in Olivia's mind, a dangerous, exhilarating idea that caused a slow, predatory smile to bloom on her lips.
"It seems, my dear Isabella, that we are sailing in the very same boat."
Isabella's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying?"
"I am suggesting... a partnership."
"A partnership?" Isabella repeated cautiously.
Olivia's smile widened. "A deal, if you prefer. I shall provide you with the exact location of your father and ensure his well-being. In exchange, when you send your letters to my father, I shall be the one to dictate their contents."
Skepticism clouded Isabella's face. "And why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't," Olivia confessed, her eyes gleaming with cold honesty. "But that is the nature of a gamble, isn't it? You risk everything to see if you win or lose. So, Isabella... what is your move?"
Olivia's hand remained extended, suspended in the heavy silence. "How much longer do you intend to keep me waiting?"
Isabella hesitated. Olivia was anything but a woman to be trusted, yet she was the only one holding the keys to her father's cage. Swallowing hard, she reached out and tentatively took Olivia's hand.
"Fine. We have a deal. But do not forget your promise—you will take me to see my father."
Olivia's lips curled into a chilled smile. "Of course I will." She rose, smoothing her gown. "Until then, partner."
As Olivia stepped out, she left Isabella drowning in a sea of doubt. Trembling, Isabella rushed toward her jewelry box, her mind racing. How did she take it? How did she even know?