The kitchen was alive with the chatter of maids, their laughter and excited voices filling the warm space. Each one spoke passionately of what delighted her most—one of love, another of family, and yet another of dreams too distant to grasp. Amid the lively conversation, Kira, leaned in close to Sola and grasped her wrist with a spark of urgency.
"Sola, come with me for a moment," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with intrigue.
Sola frowned, pulling back slightly. "Me? Why?"
"Yes, you. Just follow me," Kira insisted, giving her a playful tug.
With a reluctant sigh, Sola allowed herself to be led away, slipping behind the large wooden door of the kitchen. There, in the dim glow of a flickering lantern, they vanished from sight.
Sola crossed her arms. "Alright, Kira, what's this all about? Why did you drag me over here?"
Instead of answering immediately, Kira reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out a handful of gold coins. Ten in total. They shimmered under the faint light, their luster undeniable. She placed them in Sola's palm with a knowing smirk.
Sola gasped, her breath catching in her throat. She nearly dropped the coins as she stepped back in alarm. "Kira! Where did you get this? Tell me you didn't steal from the Duchess!"
Kiera was quick—her hand shot out and clamped over Sola's mouth. "Hush! You'll get us both into trouble," she hissed. Then, with a coy smile, she added, "I didn't steal them. Consider it... a gift."
Sola's brows knitted together in suspicion. "A gift? I don't believe you. What do you want from me?"
She smile widened, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. "Oh, come now, we're friends, aren't we? You may keep them, all of them. I only ask for one small thing in return."
Sola eyed her warily. "And what is that?"
"You're one of the maids assigned to clean Lady Isabella's chambers, aren't you?"
A slow nod. "Yes… Why?"
"You're not trying to involve me in some scheme against the Duchess, are you?"
Kira scoffed. "Oh, please. Nothing so dramatic. I just have a simple question—does Lady Isabella receive letters with a butterfly seal?"
At this, Sola's grip on the coins tightened. She looked at them, feeling the weight of a sum she had never held before. The prospect of such wealth clouded her thoughts. Then, with a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was near, she stepped closer to Kira and whispered,
"She does. Occasionally, letters arrive with a butterfly seal. I don't know what family it belongs to—it's quite unique. Perhaps a friend of hers, or something of the sort."
Her's gaze sharpened. "And where does she keep them?"
Sola hesitated. "I… I don't know."
Kira sighed, reaching into her pocket once more. Another ten coins clinked as they fell into Sola's trembling hands. With a charming tilt of her head, Kiera murmured, "Perhaps this will help your memory?"
Sola swallowed hard. Her pulse quickened. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, "She keeps them in her jewelry box."
A victorious glint flashed in Kiera's eyes. She patted Sola's arm gently. "Thank you, Sola. You may go now."
And with that, Kiera turned on her heel, already planning her next move.
She moved swiftly through the dimly lit corridors of the grand estate, her pulse quickening with each step. The weight of her newfound knowledge pressed upon her, and though the hour was late—nearly eleven—she did not hesitate. Reaching the Duchess's chamber, she took a deep breath before rapping lightly on the door.
A cool, commanding voice answered from within. "Enter."
Kiera pushed the heavy door open, stepping inside cautiously. The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, casting golden hues over the lavish furnishings. Olivia, the Duchess, reclined gracefully on a velvet chaise, her silk nightgown draped effortlessly over her form. There was an air of practiced indifference about her, yet her beauty was undeniable. For a brief moment, Kiera found herself staring, entranced, before Olivia's voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.
"Well?" The Duchess's lips curled slightly. "Do you have news for me?"
Kiera straightened, schooling her expression into one of confidence. "I never break a promise, my lady," she said smoothly. "As you suspected, Lady Isabella does receive letters bearing the butterfly seal. And I have discovered where she keeps them—in her jewelry box."
A slow, knowing smile spread across Olivia's lips. Rising from the chaise with an almost feline grace, she crossed the room toward Kiera, stopping just close enough for her breath to graze the maid's ear.
"I knew I chose the right person for the task," she murmured. Then, in a voice so soft yet laced with venom, she added, "But you do understand what will happen if you betray me, don't you?"
Kiera swallowed hard.
"I will bury you," Olivia whispered. "And your family along with you. Is that clear?"
A shiver ran down Kiera's spine. She nodded quickly, her hands trembling. "Y-yes, my lady."
The Duchess pulled away, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. "Good. Now," she turned, her tone light once more, "bring me two crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey. It seems the night is just beginning."
A gentle knock echoed through Isabella's chamber. She sat by the fireplace, a cup of tea cradled between her hands, its warmth soothing the weariness of the day.
"Come in," she called, expecting nothing out of the ordinary.
The door opened, and in walked Olivia, a confident smirk adorning her lips. In one hand, she held two glasses; in the other, a bottle of deep, crimson wine.
Isabella rose swiftly, setting her cup down. "Your Grace," she greeted, a hint of surprise in her voice. "To what do I owe this late-night visit?"
Without waiting for an invitation, Olivia settled into the armchair opposite her, crossing one leg over the other in a display of effortless dominance. She placed the glasses and bottle on the table between them, then met Isabella's eyes with a glint of amusement.
"I realized something rather peculiar," she mused. "You and I have never shared an evening drink together. Strange, isn't it?"
Isabella hesitated, caught off guard. "I… suppose so?"
"Exactly." Olivia's smile was all charm, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it. "And so, I thought, why not change that tonight? After all, it's only fitting that I enjoy a drink with my dear sister-in-law, wouldn't you agree?"
The invitation felt less like an offer and more like a command. Before Isabella could object, Olivia was already pouring, filling both glasses with the rich, intoxicating liquid. She lifted one, extending it toward Isabella.
There was no way to refuse without raising suspicion. With a reluctant hand, Isabella accepted the glass. The two women sipped in silence, the firelight flickering between them.
Then, after a long pause, Olivia finally spoke again.
"So, Isabella…"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
Olivia tilted her head, watching her closely. "How do you find the wine?"
Isabella pursed her lips. "It's… good. Though a little sharp on the tongue."
Olivia's smile deepened. "Don't worry," she murmured, taking another slow sip. "You'll get used to it."
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over the lavish chamber as Olivia swirled the wine in her glass, watching Isabella with an amused glint in her eye. The air between them was heavy with unspoken tension, a silent battle of wills unfolding in the dim glow of the fireplace. Neither woman betrayed emotion, their faces unreadable, as though the first to falter would concede defeat.
Then, with the deliberate grace of a predator toying with its prey, Olivia set her glass down and leaned forward, her voice smooth as silk.
"I wanted to ask you something, Isabella."
The younger woman remained composed, though a slight shift in her posture betrayed her unease. "Of course, Your Grace."
"Why did you leak the news of Kyle and Laila's affair to the press—or, more precisely, to my father?"
A tense silence followed. Isabella's fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her glass, but her expression remained neutral. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, feigning confusion.
Olivia chuckled softly, reaching into the folds of her gown and retrieving a sealed envelope, its edges slightly worn. She placed it on the table between them, its butterfly seal unmistakable.
"I found this in your jewelry box," Olivia said, her voice casual but laced with something far more dangerous. "Shall I read its contents aloud for you?"
A shadow passed over Isabella's face. The color drained from her cheeks, and despite her best efforts, a sheen of sweat began to form on her brow.
The candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows across the room. Isabella's piercing gaze locked onto Olivia, her voice low and sharp.
"What do you want?" she demanded. "I thought your father and I had an understanding—no one else was supposed to know of my involvement. Why did he tell you about me, Olivia?"
Olivia poured herself another glass of wine, her movements slow and deliberate. She took a sip, savoring the taste before finally responding, her tone laced with quiet amusement.
"So, it's true then," she mused. "You've been working with my father. How… intriguing."
Isabella's fingers curled into fists. "What do you mean? Wasn't he the one who told you?"
Olivia merely smiled—a knowing, infuriating smile that sent a ripple of unease through Isabella's chest.
"Answer me," Isabella pressed, her patience thinning.
Silence. Olivia's smirk did not falter, and that silence—pregnant with meaning—stoked Isabella's frustration.
"What do you want from me?" she tried again. "Are you going to tell the others? You know no one will believe you."
And that was the undeniable truth. Who would believe Olivia? If she spoke against Isabella, they would dismiss it as nothing more than jealousy, a desperate attempt to tarnish the reputation of the noble lady who had everything.
"I won't tell a soul," Olivia finally said, tilting her head slightly. "As you pointed out, no one would believe me anyway. But I want to know—why?"
"Why what?"
"Why betray them? What do you gain from this?" Olivia's voice softened, taking on a tone almost sympathetic. "You act like a devoted wife, and from what I can tell, you truly care for him. It's a political marriage, just like mine, but your eyes don't lie. You love him. So why do something that would bring him harm?"
A flicker of pain crossed Isabella's face before she could suppress it. Olivia saw the crack in her armor and pressed further.
"Your silence tells me everything," she murmured.
Isabella exhaled slowly, as if trying to steady herself. "I had no choice."
"No choice?" Olivia echoed. "What do you mean?"
A long pause. Then—
"My father," Isabella whispered, her voice almost breaking. "He has my father."
A chill settled between them.
"What are you saying?" Olivia's expression darkened.
"He kidnapped him," Isabella admitted, her voice trembling now. "Your father. He took him. I am nothing in the eyes of nobility—just a commoner's daughter who married well. No one noticed when my father disappeared two years ago. No one cared. And your father… he used that. He forced me into this. If I want my father to live, I have to obey."
The revelation hung in the air like a sword poised to strike. Olivia's grip tightened around her glass.
"All those visits to your father's house," Olivia murmured, realization dawning. "They were a cover, weren't they?"
"Yes."
A silence stretched between them before Olivia leaned forward, her voice suddenly measured. "Describe him."
"What?" Isabella blinked.
"You said he's being held by my father. I know the faces of his prisoners well. Tell me what he looks like."
Isabella hesitated. "He has a scar. A large one. Across his face."
The moment she spoke the words, Olivia's mind raced. A scar… She sifted through her memories, recalling the captives she had seen before.
And then—she saw him. A man with brown hair, green eyes, and a deep, unmistakable scar.
Isabella dropped to her knees, clutching at the fabric of Olivia's gown, her breath uneven. "Please—tell me. Is he alive? I haven't seen him in two years. Just tell me… is he alive?"
For once, Olivia did not respond immediately. She simply watched Isabella, the desperation in her eyes so raw it was almost painful to witness.
"He is a good place," Olivia finally said, her voice softer than before. "He speaks of you often. He loves you dearly."
A single tear slipped down Isabella's cheek. "Thank God…"
Minutes passed before she finally regained her composure, rising shakily to her feet and reclaiming her seat.
"I apologize, Your Majesty."
"There's no need." Olivia set down her glass. "Now, let's get back to our discussion. You've been sending reports to my father."
Something flickered in Olivia's eyes—something dark and knowing. That bastard… she thought bitterly. I was his first plan. Isabella was his backup. My father always plays every angle.
"Yes," Isabella admitted. "He promised to release my father after three years."
Three years.
The realization struck Olivia like lightning.
Three years—that's the same timeline he gave me. Three years to destroy the Lucron family. Three years until she would be free from this marriage.
How long has he been planning this?
A new thought took root in her mind, one that sent a slow smile curling on her lips. She looked at Isabella, tilting her head slightly.
"It seems, dear Isabella, that we are in the same boat."
Isabella narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… what do you think about a partnership?"
"A partnership?" Isabella's voice was wary.
"Yes." Olivia's smirk widened. "A deal, if you will. I tell you where your father is, and in exchange, when you send messages to my father, I dictate the contents."
Suspicion clouded Isabella's face. "And why should I trust you?"
"You shouldn't," Olivia admitted. "But that's how deals work, don't they? You take a risk. And you see whether you win or lose."
She extended her hand.
Isabella hesitated, her gaze locked onto Olivia's before she finally, slowly, took it. "Fine. But we free my father first."
Olivia's smile deepened. "As you wish." She stood, smoothing out the fabric of her gown. "It's late. You should get some rest, partner."
With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Isabella alone—drowning in her doubts, uncertain of Olivia's true intentions… but even more uncertain of her own.