The echo of Olivia's heels reverberated through the dimly lit corridors of the estate's west wing, a staccato rhythm betraying her inner restlessness. She paced the hallway like a caged shadow, her thoughts a turbulent sea of memories and what-ifs. Behind her, silence had finally fallen in leon's chambers where Matthias had succumbed to sleep—though not peace.
Then, like a spark in the dark, she remembered. Anne.
That small, delicate girl she had shamefully overlooked in the storm of recent events.
Without hesitation, Olivia turned and made her way to Isabella's quarters. Her knuckles rapped softly but firmly against the wooden door. Moments later, a composed voice invited her in.
The door creaked open.
Isabella stood in the center of the room, her posture cold and unwelcoming. Her gaze was sharp, her lips a thin line, but Olivia moved past her without a word. She didn't come for confrontation—only for Anne.
There she was, curled up under layers of soft linen, her tiny frame rising and falling with each slow breath. Olivia's chest loosened, and a sigh escaped her lips. She approached the bed and reached out, brushing the child's cheek with the tip of her finger. Anne shifted slightly, but her slumber remained undisturbed. A tender smile found its way to Olivia's face, fleeting yet sincere.
The duchess was killed ," Olivia's voice pierced the quiet, flat and unrelenting.
Isabella froze, The words stung even though she had expected them.
"…I know," she whispered, uncertain. "But—"
"Please, Isabella, do not interrupt," Olivia snapped, stepping forward. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Anne, then back to Isabella. "You were there. You know I had nothing to do with her death. And yet… none of that matters anymore. Matthias is unraveling. And your husband—well, I doubt he's faring any better."
"Olivia —" Isabella began, her voice trembling between defiance and guilt.
"I said don't interrupt," Olivia cut in again, her tone steel beneath velvet. "Listen closely. If word spreads about the Grand Duchess's death, especially the fact that she was poisoned—with my family's poison, no less—it will cause an uproar the kingdom has not seen in decades. There will be investigations, trials, whispers in the court. And this wedding you're all clinging to? It will never happen."
She took a step closer, her voice lower now, more controlled.
"I spoke with Kyle," she continued. "The King's condition remains firm: the wedding must proceed exactly on schedule, or he will refuse the petition to bring Leila and Anne into the royal household. We will lose everything. They will lose everything."
A silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating. Olivia looked down at Anne's face again, so peaceful—so unaware of the storm building around her.
"I didn't kill her," she said at last, softly. "But if saving them means bearing the guilt… then I will."
She exhaled sharply, the breath leaving her lips in frustration.
"My father," she began, her voice laced with tension, "has made it abundantly clear that any alliance between the duchy and the royal family is utterly unacceptable. Should this marriage go through, he stands to lose the support of many of his most loyal allies. That cannot be allowed to happen. We must prevent news of the Duchess's death from spreading—though I suspect that wretched harlot has already loosed the rumor into the winds."
She paused, pacing the room like a lioness in a shrinking cage, then turned abruptly. "We need a solution. Now."
Her voice rose suddenly, charged with reckless determination. "Listen—" she said, lifting her chin, eyes burning with dangerous resolve. "I have an idea. Not the brightest, perhaps, but it may serve our purpose."
From the folds of her cloak, she retrieved a small vial and advanced toward Isabella, who straightened defensively.
"Isabella, I rarely visit the side palace these days," she continued, her tone low and conspiratorial. "You know the servants there better than I do."
"What are you implying?" Isabella asked, brows knitting as her gaze fell on the vial. Her tone shifted into suspicion. "And what is that you're holding?"
The woman didn't flinch. Her eyes narrowed, the corner of her mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Poison," she replied matter-of-factly. "But don't concern yourself—I have the antidote as well."
She reached into her cloak again, producing a second vial with a pale, translucent liquid and held it up for Isabella to see. "Look. This will keep it under control. But I need you to focus. I want you to speak to one of Miss Emilia's maids. Convince her to slip this—" she raised the poison again "—into Emilia's next meal."
Isabella recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in disbelief. "What? You must be mad."
"Just listen," the woman snapped, her tone brooking no argument. "We cannot allow the Grand Duchess's death to be discovered. Not yet. The only viable plan is for Éloïse to impersonate her."
"What?" Isabella gasped, nearly dropping the antidote. "Talia?"
"Yes. Think about it. They share enough of a resemblance, especially as cousins. And no one has seen the Duchess in public for years. She withdrew from society ages ago. No one would suspect a thing, not unless they were staring too long—and no one dares to look her in the eye anyway."
She paused, eyes gleaming with cunning. "But talia loathes me. She won't listen to me, let alone agree to such a scheme, not out of loyalty or command. That's where Emilia comes in."
Isabella frowned, her breath shallow. "What does Emilia have to do with this?"
A twisted smile bloomed slowly on the woman's lips. "She's her daughter. Not by blood, but by heart. The Grand Duchess loved Emilia more than her own flesh and blood. If talia believes Emilia is in danger… she will act. She has to. She'd endure anything to save that girl pain."
There was a glint of satisfaction in her expression now, a fire of strategy masked beneath layers of calculation. The trap had been set—the pawns chosen.
All that remained was for someone to take the first step.
A single bead of sweat trailed down Isabella's temple, glistening faintly before falling to the marble floor. She kept her gaze averted, as though looking at Olivia directly might shatter whatever fragile composure she still possessed. Her jaw tightened, her hands clenched behind her back in a silent effort to master her expression.
Olivia noticed.
"What is it now, Isabella?" she asked with a hint of mockery, her voice curling around the name like smoke. "Are you frightened? Don't be. You're not going to die."
She stepped closer, her words soft, almost soothing—yet laced with malice. "I've tested this poison before. It isn't fatal. Just… uncomfortable. A few hours of weakness. Perhaps a fever, trembling hands. But you'll live."
Before Isabella could respond, a soft chuckle echoed from behind Olivia—unexpected, smooth, male.
She froze.
Someone moved from the shadows, their steps unhurried. A hand extended over Olivia's shoulder and plucked the vial from Isabella's grasp with theatrical ease.
"Oh, my dear sister-in-law," came the voice—familiar, amused, and disarmingly calm. "I've always known you were mad, but this… this is a new level of lunacy."
Olivia turned sharply, her expression hardening as she came face-to-face with Léon. Her breath caught for a split second, not from fear, but from the realization that Isabella's hesitant glances had not been about guilt—but warning.
She flicked a sharp look toward Isabella, who met her eyes with a gaze that silently said, I tried to tell you we weren't alone.
Recovering, Olivia faced Léon once more, her voice clipped. "And what is it you want now?"
Léon held the vial aloft between two fingers, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "I'm simply wondering," he mused, "how many drops would be enough? Two? Three? Just enough to send a message."
"What?" both women exclaimed in unison, startled.
With a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, Léon moved to the edge of little Anne's bed, leaned against its carved frame, and continued, "Since we've all accepted this wonderfully deranged plan as our only viable option, I thought I might offer my assistance. Emilia visits me every day, you know—it would be far easier if I were the one to deliver the poison."
A tense silence followed, broken only when Olivia finally replied, cautiously, "Fine. I suppose that would work… But tell me, Léon—do you actually believe me? That there's an antidote?"
His eyes twinkled with that familiar, dangerous charm. "No," he said simply, "not really."
Without warning, she extended her hand. "Then give it to me. I'll drink it. Right here. You can watch."
He laughed, a low, rich sound that lingered in the air. "Ah, ever the dramatic one. Emilia might forgive me for this—if she ever found out. But Matthias? He'd kill me for letting you so much as sip poison a second time. And unfortunately, I'm rather fond of my own life. So instead, I'll place my faith in yours. If Isabella trusts you, I suppose I can, too."
With that, he turned and walked out, the vial still in hand, leaving the two women behind in stunned silence.
Olivia looked at Isabella, blinking once, then said dryly, "Your husband is… unusual. And terrifying."
Isabella scoffed, her expression curling with disdain. "As if Matthias is some kind of angel in comparison."
She turned away, folding her arms.
"In any case, it's probably for the best I didn't mention what happened last night," she muttered. "That would've been an entirely different disaster."