The crowd remained frozen, staring in shock, until Olivia's sharp gaze pierced through them. Her voice, though cool and distant, cut through the air.
"Welcome back," she simply said, her words a chillingly formal greeting.
It was the coldest welcome imaginable—two simple words, uttered without the slightest change in her rigid expression. She turned and walked back into the castle, her footsteps echoing in the stunned silence.
She was afraid to raise her eyes and meet Mathias's, fearing what might be revealed on her face.
"Welcome, Leon," Mathias muttered, still staring at her retreating figure. "Was that truly my wife? Do you think she has finally lost her mind?"
Leon laughed, though his chuckle carried a note of pity.
"Man, I truly feel sorry for you. You've been suffering for two years, and now you have to deal with her madness."
Mathias's eyes hardened, his voice low but firm.
"Leon, there is a limit to what you can say."
Leon fell silent, swallowing his words. Though Mathias had responded with a trace of sarcasm, there was no mistaking the protective undertone in his voice.
Even with the others whispering about Olivia's cold welcome, he would not tolerate any disrespect toward his wife—not even from his brother.
He turned toward the soldiers, his gaze dark with authority.
"Does anyone here have a problem with the Duchess's greeting?"
The soldiers fell silent, their eyes avoiding his as they stood at rigid attention. Despite Olivia's frigid demeanor, respect for her position as Duchess was instinctive.
"No, my Lord," one finally spoke, his voice strained. "We are grateful that the Duchess herself saw fit to receive us."
Mathias's expression softened slightly, but his tone remained cool.
"Good. Let us remember that next time."
Meanwhile, Olivia sat alone in her chamber, her breathing shallow and uneven. She reached for a glass of water, but it slipped from her trembling grasp and shattered on the floor.
She crumpled onto the cold stone, pulling her knees to her chest, her mind reeling with the faces of those she had betrayed in her past life—faces that now haunted her like ghosts.
The guilt gnawed at her, heavy and unrelenting. When she glanced down, she noticed blood on her hand, staining her skin where a shard of glass had cut deep. For an instant, she thought it was the blood of those she had caused to perish.
At that moment, Kira, her maid, rushed into the room.
"My Lady, your hand is bleeding! We must tend to it at once."
Olivia did not answer. She sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the floor as Kira hurried to clean the wound.
"There, I'm done," the maid said softly. "You should have called me sooner, My Lady."
"Leave," Olivia whispered, her voice hollow.
Kira hesitated, but obeyed.
"As you wish, My Lady."
When the door closed behind her, silence returned—heavy and suffocating.
Night fell, and the knights gathered in the great hall with the Duke and his aide. It was customary for the commander to dine with his men upon returning from the front, but this night greeted them with an unexpected sight:
A feast.
The table overflowed with delicacies—roasted meats, sugared fruits, spiced wine—everything a weary soldier could desire. Yet none of them ate. They stood still, perplexed, their minds still haunted by the Duchess's icy welcome.
The Duke glanced at Leon, his brow furrowed.
"Leon, did you tell my sister-in-law to prepare this feast?"
"What?!" Leon exclaimed, stunned.
"Are you saying you didn't?" the Duke pressed, disbelief in his voice.
"Head Butler," he called, "step forward."
The old servant bowed.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Who gave the order to prepare this feast? To my knowledge, simple meals are served even on a soldier's return."
The butler hesitated.
"My Lord… it was Lady Isabella who ordered it—and she said it was by the Duchess's command."
Mathias's eyes widened.
"What?!"
A heavy silence settled over the room. None dared touch the food, fearing deception.
"Summon Lady Isabella," the Duke ordered.
Moments later, Isabella appeared. Mathias's voice was calm, but edged with suspicion.
"Sister-in-law, I must ask—did Olivia truly request this feast?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Isabella replied steadily. "Everything was done according to the Duchess's orders. If you doubt me, you may ask her yourself."
"Very well," Mathias murmured, though his tone betrayed uncertainty.
No one moved. Suspicion lingered like a storm cloud. Then, without a word, Mathias took his seat at the head of the table and began to eat.
"Your Grace!" Leon cried.
Mathias raised his hand. Silence fell. He finished his bite before speaking.
"It is not poisoned," he said coolly. "Eat."
One by one, the knights followed his example. The hall filled with the soft clatter of cutlery, though the tension never quite left.
At last, the Duke rose and departed, his thoughts dark and heavy. He sought solitude in his study, determined to make sense of the strange changes in his wife.
A week had passed since the Duke's return, yet the atmosphere within the grand palace remained as cold as ever. Olivia worked alongside Isabella, managing the estate with quiet diligence, as though her husband's presence meant nothing.
Mathias, meanwhile, received daily reports of her actions—not from curiosity, but habit. Their marriage had long ceased to be a union of affection. They ate separately, slept apart, and exchanged only the most necessary words.
The monotony of their estrangement was broken one morning by a sealed letter, bearing the Imperial crest. Mathias broke the seal and read:
"Mathias, you rogue—why didn't you tell me you were back? Is this how friends treat each other? I will be visiting this evening, so prepare yourself!"
A rare smile tugged at his lips—half amusement, half exasperation.
"Prepare a feast worthy of His Highness, the Crown Prince," he ordered the Head Butler.
The butler paled slightly.
"Certainly, Your Grace."
When the servant hurried off, Mathias realized he had yet to inform Olivia. He sighed and went to do so himself.
In her private chambers, Olivia reclined in a warm bath, her head resting against the marble rim. Steam curled lazily through the air. A glass of red wine glowed like garnet in her hand.
Kira, her maid, was in the next room, arranging evening gowns on the bed. The peaceful silence was broken by a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" Kira called softly.
"It is I."
She froze. That voice could belong to no one but the Duke. She opened the door and curtsied.
"Your Grace, my Lady is bathing."
Mathias nodded once.
"Leave us. I need to speak with her."
Kira bowed and slipped out quietly.
Mathias seated himself near the fire, resting his chin on his hand, waiting.
Minutes later, Olivia emerged.
Her robe hung loosely from one shoulder, her damp hair clinging to her neck. She held her half-empty wine glass, her eyes half-lidded with languid exhaustion. Without looking up, she sank into the nearest chair.
"Kira," she murmured, "dry my hair and pour me another glass of wine."
But Kira did not answer.
Mathias rose, took a towel from the nearby stand, and approached. Gently, he began to dry her hair.
Olivia tensed.
"Kira… where is the wine I asked for?"
His voice came quietly, close to her ear.
"I am not Kira."