It was only moments after his departure when Olivia slipped her hand into the hidden pocket of her gown. From its shadowed depth, she drew forth a second vial. The glass caught the dim light, sending a thin glint across the room.
Isabella's brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing in confusion.
"Another vial? Why would you carry two?"
Olivia's lips curved into something colder than a smile—an expression laced with disdain. Without a word, she pressed the vial into Isabella's hand.
"You know exactly what to do," she said, her voice low, sharp as a blade. "Do you honestly believe I trust your husband? My dear, do you truly think he would poison Amelia simply because I told him to? Spare me your naïveté. Just… do your part."
With that, Olivia turned and swept from the room, leaving behind a trace of perfume and a storm of unease in Isabella's chest.
From the far end of the corridor, Leon had been watching—one leg crossed over the other, a figure carved from casual arrogance. He rose and entered the room with deliberate steps, his gaze fixed on his wife.
"Give it to me," he said simply.
"What?" Isabella replied, startled.
"The second vial," he clarified, his tone neither raised nor hurried, yet leaving no room for argument. "Did you really think I wouldn't know? That she'd trust me?" He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I don't know what compels you to obey her, but don't drag yourself into affairs you can't control. If someone's hands must be stained with blood, they'll be mine—not yours."
Something in his eyes made resistance feel futile. Without protest, Isabella placed the vial in his palm, her fingers brushing briefly against his before retreating. She said nothing; there was nothing to say.
He left without hesitation, striding straight for his study. There was no pause, no flicker of doubt—only the cold precision of a plan set in motion. And now, here she was. Amelia. Sitting across from him, unaware, her delicate fingers curling around the porcelain cup her younger brother had offered.
Leon watched her sip the tea, his gaze calm, his breathing even.
"I hope the tea suits your taste," he said, voice smooth as silk.
She smiled faintly, unaware of the quiet storm in his eyes.
"Yes, Lord Leon."
A false warmth touched his lips.
"There's no need for titles between us. We're family. Call me 'brother.'"
She hesitated, her voice soft, unsure.
"Yes, bro—"
The word died on her tongue. The teacup slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor, scattering shards and dark liquid. Her vision spun, the room tilting and collapsing in on itself. Within seconds, her body went slack, the light in her eyes dimming to nothing.
Leon caught her before she could fall, cradling her as though she were porcelain too. Without calling for a doctor, without summoning a single soul, he carried her upstairs, step by measured step, into the shadowed silence of her room.
Olivia was already there, standing near the window, her arms folded neatly across her chest. A smile curled her lips—not of kindness, but of satisfaction.
"You've done well," she murmured, eyes glittering. "I didn't think you had it in you."
Leon met her gaze, a sly curve playing on his mouth.
"Well, I've done my part. I expect you'll do yours. Otherwise…" His tone sharpened, though his smile never wavered. "…you'll go down with me."
Olivia's expression didn't falter, but her silence was answer enough. She turned toward the door.
Before she could step out, his voice stopped her.
"Oh, and don't trouble yourself about Matthias. I slipped something into his drink—just a harmless sedative. He'll be asleep for quite some time. So… do hurry."
The hour was deep and still, the kind of midnight when the walls themselves seem to listen.
From the far end of the palace's side wing came a sound—three measured knocks, quiet yet deliberate.
Talya sat alone by the fire, its golden light painting her face in warm hues. She closed the book in her lap, marking her place with a ribbon, and removed her spectacles, folding them with slow precision.
"Who's there?" she called, her tone neither welcoming nor wary—merely the voice of one who expected to be answered.
Silence.
Her brow furrowed. "Amelia? Is that you?"
Nothing. Only the muted hiss of logs shifting in the fireplace.
With a sigh, she rose. Her slippers whispered across the carpet as she crossed the room. She unlatched the heavy door and pulled it open.
There, in the flickering firelight, a pair of ice-blue eyes stared back at her. The light caught them in such a way that they seemed almost aflame—blue fire in the dark.
Olivia.
She stood framed in the doorway like a figure from a portrait—poised, smirking, utterly at ease. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she offered a mocking salute.
"I do hope I'm not disturbing you, dear mother-in-law," she said, her tone lined with a velvet that felt more like a blade's edge. Without waiting for permission, she stepped forward, the faint scent of her perfume preceding her.
Talya stiffened, irritation prickling at the edges of her composure. She opened her mouth to speak, but Olivia's voice sliced in first.
"Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Talya's gaze sharpened. "Why should I? You've already invited yourself."
Unfazed, Olivia drifted into the room, letting her gloved fingers trail along the carved back of a chair as if claiming the space. She lowered herself onto the velvet settee with exaggerated elegance, crossing one leg over the other.
"Such a lovely room," she said, her eyes sweeping the high shelves and gilded frames. "Cozy. Inviting." A pause, then a faint pout. "My throat, however, feels parched. Be a dear and fetch me something to drink."
Talya's first instinct was to refuse—flatly, coldly—but years of court life had taught her the value of measured restraint. Olivia thrived on reaction, on cracks in composure, and Talya would not give her that satisfaction.
"It's late," she said instead, each word clipped with quiet dignity. "But I'll pour you some tea."
Olivia leaned back, watching her with the slow, assessing gaze of a predator. The silence between them was not empty—it hummed with unspoken challenges.
When Talya returned with the tea and set it down before her, Olivia didn't even glance at the cup. She let a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
"Oh, but I never drink tea at this hour," she murmured. "Wine. Something vintage. Surely you have a bottle of the old stock hidden away."
For a heartbeat, Talya considered telling her exactly where she could put her request. But the Duchess—young though she was—held influence enough to make such defiance costly. And so Talya met her gaze, her own expression unreadable, and rose without a word.
She could fetch the wine. She could play the game.
But she would not forget this moment.
The wine poured in a slow, unbroken stream, the deep red gleam catching the flicker of the fire. Talya's hand was steady, but her eyes never left Olivia, who sat watching her with that lazy, feline stillness that set the nerves on edge.
Olivia took the glass without thanks, her fingers lingering on the stem as she swirled the liquid. She sipped—slowly, deliberately—making Talya wait in that unbearable quiet.
When she finally spoke, her voice was casual, almost conversational.
"Your daughter's wedding… only a day away now."
"Yes, Your Grace," Talya replied, forcing formality into her tone.
Olivia hummed, tilting her head as though deciding where to place her next move.
"Mmm. I have some news for you. Something I suspect will… delight you."
Talya's brows drew together. That smile—sharp, deliberate, wrong—spread across Olivia's lips, and a cold unease crept through her bones before the words even came.
"It appears the stage has been cleared for you. Your… dear friend… has died."
The words seemed to echo, slow and heavy.
"What?" Talya's voice cracked.
Olivia rose without hurry, gliding behind Talya's chair. Her presence loomed—warm breath near her ear, the faint scent of wine and something darker. Fingers slid under Talya's chin, forcing her gaze upward.
"She. Is. Dead, Eloise is dead."
The glass slipped from Olivia's hand and shattered, shards scattering across the marble. The sound was like ice breaking on a frozen lake—sharp enough to make her flinch.
She turned to look at Olivia, fear bleeding through her composure.
"Are you serious?"
Olivia didn't bother to answer with words—her eyes, cold and unyielding, were enough.
She walked back to the table, refilled her glass, and sat beside Talya as if nothing had happened. Her voice was calm, too calm.
"We're keeping it… contained. For now."
Talya's voice was barely more than a whisper. "Contained?"
"Of course it will be known eventually," Olivia said, crossing one leg over the other. "But we don't want the wedding… disrupted. So here's what will happen." Her gaze locked on Talya like a predator fixing on prey. "You will take her place. For the next day, you will be the Duchess Eloise."
Talya shot to her feet.
"What??Absolutely not. Do you think I'm some piece on your board? I will never play the part of that woman—not after everything she—"
"Sit."
The word was sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.
Talya froze, the force of that single syllable pinning her in place. Olivia's expression hadn't changed—still calm, still composed—but there was something in her eyes, something cold and ancient, that warned Talya the command was not one to be ignored.
Talya sat, but not in submission—her posture was rigid, her chin lifted in open defiance.
"You cannot force me to do what I will not," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "If you want to punish me, then do it. I do not care. But I will never play the role of the woman who destroyed my life—not for anything. Not even over my dead body."
Olivia set her wineglass down with deliberate calm, then raised her hand and struck her across the face. The sound cracked through the room, sharp as breaking glass.
Talya's hand flew instinctively to her cheek, but Olivia caught it, pulling it away with chilling ease. She studied the reddened skin as though examining a fine piece of porcelain.
"Mmm… no lasting mark. No swelling. Good," she murmured, almost to herself.
Talya jerked her arm free, her eyes burning with fury.
"I told you—I will not play her part."
Olivia straightened, her elegance unshaken, and began to move toward the door. She sighed, as if disappointed.
"I can't believe I care more for your daughter than you do. You won't even help her on her wedding day."
The words were meant to wound, but they slid off Talya's resolve like rain against stone. She didn't flinch. She didn't answer.
Olivia paused at the door, then turned back. With a sudden, unnerving intimacy, she reached forward, took a strand of Talya's hair between her fingers, and studied it in the firelight.
"Mmm… we'll need to dye this. And change the style. Yes… we have much work ahead tomorrow."
Talya's voice exploded, shattering her calm façade.
"I said I will not do it! Are you mad?"
Olivia's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. Her hand rested on the door's brass handle, the fire casting a gleam across her eyes.
"By tomorrow," she said softly, "you'll be begging me to let you do it. Are you so certain you'll keep that confidence?"
And with that, she slipped out, leaving Talya alone with the sting on her cheek and the echo of her words hanging in the room like smoke.