Morning light bled through the palace windows, pale and cold. But Talya didn't notice. Her steps were rapid, almost frantic, her slippers striking the marble floor in sharp, echoing beats. The fury in her chest burned hotter than the shame she felt for losing control.
She didn't knock. She didn't announce herself. She burst into Olivia's chambers like a storm breaking glass.
Olivia was seated at her vanity, idly fastening an earring, her reflection calm, almost regal. She didn't even turn at the intrusion.
Talya crossed the room in three strides, seized her by the collar of her silk robe, and yanked her forward.
"You vile, poisonous whore," she spat, each word dripping with venom. "Rot festers in your bloodline—it seeps from your very skin! Don't think I don't know this is your doing. Amelia—" her voice cracked, but only for a moment "—is lying there because of you! No one else could be so twisted!"
Olivia finally looked at her, and the faintest curve touched her lips—a smile that wasn't for pleasure, but for victory.
In a single, sudden movement, she shoved Talya back. The older woman stumbled, her heels catching on the carpet, and she fell hard into the velvet armchair behind her.
Olivia rose slowly, every movement deliberate, like a cat closing in on a trapped bird. She stepped forward until she was standing over Talya, her shadow cutting through the morning light.
"I told you," she said, her voice silk over steel, "you would come to me of your own accord." She leaned in, so close Talya could see the glint in her eyes. "Tell me… where did all that confidence from last night vanish to?"
Her smile widened, sweet as honey, poisonous as the venom Talya accused her of.
Talia froze under Olivia's gaze, as though the woman's eyes had pinned her to the floor.
There was no warmth there—only the glint of something sharp, precise, and utterly cold.
A chill crawled up Talia's spine, her throat tightening until each breath felt like a stone lodged in her chest. She swallowed hard, but the motion only made the knot worse. Her fingers trembled at her sides.
A flash cut through her thoughts—unwelcome, cruel—
Emilia, pale as moonlight, her skin drained of all color, lying weak and still.
Olivia tilted her head ever so slightly, watching her like a predator who had already decided the outcome of the hunt. Her lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, one that seemed to know far more than it should.
"Well?" she murmured, her voice silk wrapped around steel. "Has the cat got your tongue?"
That was it. The last thread of doubt snapped.
Talia knew.
Olivia had done this.
Memories surfaced unbidden—whispers of the Tharons' merciless ways, their vengeance that spared no one, their cruelty dressed in elegance. Pride, resolve… all those shields she had worn so fiercely crumbled in an instant.
Her hands—no longer steady—clutched at the fabric of Olivia's gown with a desperation that burned away every trace of dignity.
"I… I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice quivering. "I wasn't thinking, I was upset. Please, Your Majesty, forgive my insolence. Please—tell me what's wrong with my daughter."
Olivia's smile deepened, a spark of mockery lighting her eyes.
"Oh, so now I'm Your Majesty," she said with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "And not… let me think—"
She tapped a manicured finger to her chin, as though recalling a fond memory.
"Ah, yes. The venomous whore."
Talia's knees gave way before she even realized it. She sank to the floor, tears streaming freely now, her voice breaking apart between sobs.
"I'm sorry—please, forgive the words of a foolish woman. My daughter has done nothing wrong. Punish me instead, I beg you. I'll do anything you ask… anything at all."
"Anything?" Olivia's tone was soft, almost playful—but the dangerous glint in her eyes betrayed her.
"Yes…" Talia whispered, defeat etched into every line of her face. "Anything… please."
And just like that, the teasing light in Olivia's gaze vanished. Her expression hardened into something far more chilling—controlled, deliberate, merciless.
"Then tomorrow," she said, her voice like the closing of a lock, "you will be Eloise."
Shock tore through Talia, leaving her breathless.
She had prayed—foolishly—that yesterday's argument had buried this demand.
"This… this is too much… I—"
Olivia moved with unhurried grace, opening a drawer and retrieving a crystal vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, colorless and innocent-looking. She set it on the table between them with a soft click that sounded louder than it should.
"If Emilia does not drink this before today's sun reaches its height," Olivia said, her voice almost gentle, "I'm afraid she will be joining her mother far sooner than you think. Perhaps they'll have a little tea party together in the afterlife."
Her words hung in the air, light and casual—yet heavy enough to crush.
Eloise.
The name was a chain, dragging her down into a pit she had sworn she would never touch.
Every instinct screamed to spit in Olivia's face, to scream, to claw her way out.
But then… Emilia's face flashed again. That pale, unmoving figure. The slow, shallow breaths. The life slipping away.
Her stomach churned violently, bile burning the back of her throat. She hated herself for hesitating, hated the way Olivia's presence seemed to strip away her strength piece by piece.
Olivia leaned back in her chair, her expression calm, almost amused, as if she were watching a slow, predictable play reach its final act.
"Well, my dear," she murmured, "we don't have all day. I'd advise you to make your decision before the clock decides for you."
The ticking of the mantel clock filled the silence, each click another nail in her coffin.
Talia's breathing grew shallow. She looked at the vial again—such a small thing to hold so much power over life and death.
Her lips trembled. "If… if I do this—"
"You'll do it," Olivia interrupted smoothly, her voice slicing through like a blade. "Because the alternative is burying your daughter before the week ends. And we both know you're not that stubborn."
It wasn't a choice. It never had been.
Talia's shoulders slumped as the last of her defiance bled away. Her pride lay in tatters at Olivia's feet.
She whispered the words that felt like shackles closing around her wrists.
"…I'll be Eloise."
Olivia's smile returned, slow and satisfied, the smile of a predator finally tasting victory.
"Good girl," she purred, rising from her seat. "I'll have your gown prepared. Tomorrow, you'll wear her face… and no one will ever know the difference."