They sat together on the velvet sofa, the air between them heavy.
Mathias produced two crystal glasses and a bottle of dark wine, settling beside her with a weary grace.
Before he could pour, Olivia turned to him, her gaze as steady as a predator's.
"Before we drink," she began, "give me your hand."
He paused, the bottle hovering mid-air. His brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. "What?"
"Your hand is injured and requires tending. Give it to me."
He stared at her, his face etched with a rare, naked disbelief. "You... you wish to treat me?"
Olivia's expression shifted to one of mild, clinical annoyance.
"Yes, I do. Do you see anyone else in this room capable of the task?"
Without waiting for his consent, she reached out and took his hand, pulling it toward her. She retrieved a kit of medicinal supplies, her movements precise and practiced.
She applied a cooling ointment to the raw burns, then began to wind the bandages with careful, rhythmic wraps.
Throughout it all, Mathias remained frozen, his eyes tracking her every move with deep skepticism.
Finally, he muttered, his voice a low rasp:
"Is this poison?"
Olivia's hands stilled. She looked up, her eyes widening in mock astonishment.
"What? I must have misheard you."
He narrowed his eyes, crossing his free arm over his chest.
"You heard me perfectly, Olivia. What is this sudden display of mercy if not a toxin? I should warn you—if you kill me, the crown will see you to the gallows."
A small, weary sigh escaped her lips as she tucked the end of the bandage into place.
"I have just spent my efforts mending you, and this is your gratitude? Besides,"
she added, her voice dropping to a dry hum,
"I am far too young to be a widow."
Matthieu paused, a sudden, mischievous glint dancing in his feverish eyes.
"So... you intend to kill me when I am older, then?"
For a moment, Olivia's temper flared, a spark of genuine heat in her chest. She masked it instantly with a thin, brittle smile.
"My dear husband," she purred, "has no one ever told you that you become quite the fool when you drink?"
He let out a short, dry laugh. " Why?"
"Because that is exactly what you are being. Who accuses their nurse of poisoning them while they are still holding the bandages?"
His demeanor shifted instantly. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating gravity. He straightened his posture, looming slightly closer.
"You were delivering a sermon on the wretchedness of my pity before you left this room," he said, his voice sharp as a razor.
"Now you are back, playing the saint. You are not the type to care for the wounded, Olivia. So, tell me—who sent you?"
His logic was flawless. Even she, for a fleeting second, had questioned the sudden impulse that brought her back. She let out a sharp breath, surrendering to the truth.
"Isabella."
He looked at her, his interest piqued. "And what did she say?"
"She said I should treat you. That I should stay by your side while the fever has its way with you."
Matthieu sneered, a mocking curl to his lip.
"Aaa, I see. She had to tell you, because she knew such a thing would never occur to you naturally."
Olivia fell silent. She chose not to argue; there was no profit in it. Instead, she kept her eyes on his bandaged hand, watching his expression.
It was empty—a void she couldn't quite map.
"So,"
she began, attempting to steer the conversation into calmer waters, "when did you take up smoking so heavily?"
He interrupted her with chilling precision.
"You could just ask me directly, Olivia. No need to beat around the bush. I know you are dying to know how I earned these burns."
She met his stare, her voice firm and unforgiving.
"Why did you do this to yourself? And these bottles... did you truly consume all of this alone?"
He glanced at the graveyard of empty glass littering the table and shrugged with a hollow indifference.
"Not all of them," he replied. "But most."
Matthieu deliberately avoided her first question. Olivia, sensing the invisible wall he had built, chose silence over confrontation.
A heavy stillness settled between them. His expression hardened, shifting from guarded skepticism to something unreadable—serious, burdened, and laced with a trace of sorrow.
Then, he spoke. His voice was low, stripped of its usual bite.
"Olivia... just for tonight... can you be my wife? Not the daughter of your father?"
The request caught her off guard. A flicker of genuine confusion flashed in her eyes.
"Hmmmm, yes of course, I am your wife after all. Why would you even ask such a thing?"
He exhaled sharply, dragging his hands over his face as if trying to physically erase the tension from his features.
"Do you love your mother?"
Olivia blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. "What?"
"Tell me," he pressed, his gaze boring into hers.
"Do you love her as your mother?"
Something about his tone unsettled her. She had never truly examined her heart for that particular emotion—not in the way he was asking. Honesty felt like the only currency left between them tonight.
"That is... a difficult question," she admitted.
"But if you want the truth—I have always seen her as an Empress, not a mother. I never thought of her as mine. She gave birth to me, yes, but if you want my opinion, a biological accident does not make her my mother.
In truth, I have always felt like an orphan."
To her surprise, his posture softened. A slow, weary smile formed on his lips, as if her confession had provided a missing piece to a puzzle.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Olivia raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For your answer. It was exactly what I needed to hear."
Her eyes narrowed, the gears of her mind turning.
"Does this have something to do with Lady Talia?"
At the mention of the name, the shadows returned to his face.
"In a way, yes. She arrives tomorrow. I assume Isabella already informed you?"
"She did. But why the sudden visit?"
"The former Duchess requested her presence."
Olivia's eyebrows shot up.
"The former Duchess? That is... unusual. For what purpose?"
"I don't know," Mathias admitted. "But it was her condition for adopting Lila."
"Hah. That is certainly unexpected."
Fatigue finally began to claim him, his rigid posture loosening at last.
Without asking for permission, he leaned back, resting his head in her lap. Olivia stiffened for a heartbeat, her instinct to pull away clashing with his earlier plea:
Be my wife tonight. She exhaled a long sigh and remained still, allowing him to settle.
"You still haven't answered me," she murmured after a long silence, her voice soft against the quiet of the room.
"Why did you burn your own hand like that?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"You really weren't going to let that go, were you?"
"No, you said be my wife, okay I'm doing my job, I'm worried about you."
He stared up at the ceiling, his breath hitching slightly. "am not sick, if that is what you fear. It is just... I lose control of my magic when my anxiety peaks.
The physical pain helps me focus. The smoke helps me stay calm."
"I see," she said softly. She reached out, her fingers hovering near his temple.
"Well, at least your face is no longer flushed. I suppose that means the anxiety has retreated."
He closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper as sleep began to pull him under.
"Maybe... because I don't feel worried anymore."
Olivia shifted slightly, pulling her legs up onto the plush surface of the couch.
Mathias flinched, his eyes snapping open. "What are you doing?"
"You asked me to be your wife for the night, did you not?" she replied calmly.
"I have no intention of spending the night sitting bolt upright. Come here—properly. You may sleep in my arms if you wish."
His breath hitched, a momentary crack in his armor, but he quickly composed himself.
"Ah... if you say so."
Adjusting his position, he curled against her, wrapping his arms around her like a child seeking warmth in a cold world.
Within moments, the tension left his body, and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Olivia watched him in the silence of the room, her fingers running absentmindedly through his hair.
"You look like a child when you've been drinking," she thought, a bittersweet sadness clouding her expression.
"If things had been different... if I weren't the daughter of that monster, perhaps we could have been a normal husband and wife.
She continued "But for tonight, sleep in your wife's arms. Tomorrow, you may return to seeing me as your enemy's daughter."
She woke to a soft, persistent voice breaking through the veil of sleep.
"My lady... my lady... it is morning."
Slowly, Olivia opened her eyes. The golden light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains, painting the room in shades of amber. Her limbs felt heavy and reluctant, but she pushed herself upright.
The unfamiliarity of the surroundings struck her for a heartbeat before reality settled in.
"Ah… right. I fell asleep in Matthieu's chambers. What time is it?"
"It is nine o'clock, my lady. The Duke has instructed me to bring your attire here. I have also prepared your bath."
Olivia paused, her voice regaining its composed, distant edge.
"Very well. You may leave. I will summon you when I am ready."
"As you wish, my lady."
Once alone, her gaze drifted across the room. She was struck by the clinical order of it all. Every trace of the previous night had been meticulously erased. No misplaced objects, no lingering scent of tobacco—no sign of the raw emotions that had stirred within these walls.
It was as though the night had been a collective fever dream.
With a sigh, she reached for the buttons of her dress, letting the silk slip from her shoulders before stepping into the steaming bath.
The water embraced her like a comforting whisper, easing the weight pressing against her mind.
She closed her eyes, surrendering to a fleeting illusion of peace.
And then—
"Good morning."
Her eyes snapped open.
She turned her head toward the doorway. Mathias stood there, his silhouette framed against the dim corridor. His gaze was unreadable—distant, yet unwavering.
"Oh. It is you… Good morning."
His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk, though his tone remained unimpressed.
"Cold, as always. Hurry up. I shall be waiting in the room."
With that, he vanished, leaving her once again with nothing but silence and the cooling water.
By the time she stepped out of the bath and dressed, the cool morning air had begun to settle into her bones. She approached him, her expression a mask of indifference.
"Last night, I helped you with your buttons," she remarked, her voice steady yet laced with an unspoken challenge.
"Now, return the favor."
Mathias did not hesitate.
He stepped behind her, his hands moving deftly to fasten the delicate buttons along the back of her dress. His touch was impersonal, mechanical—like a tailor dressing a mannequin for display.
"She will be arriving soon," he said, his voice flat, never once looking at her face.