She will be arriving soon," he said, his voice flat, never once looking at her.
A heavy pause hung between them.
"Do you wish for me to receive her?" Olivia asked.
"No. Do as you please. I only thought you should know."
His hands fell away from her dress, and with them, any lingering warmth vanished.
Olivia turned to face him fully then, searching his features as though she could glimpse a reflection of her own internal storm. Perhaps she did. The dread twisting in her stomach was an old acquaintance—it was the same chilling unease she felt whenever she faced her mother.
It was the quiet voice of inadequacy, whispering from the shadows of her mind.
But she would not show it. Not now. Not to him.
"Then let us go to the receiving hall," she declared, her voice a shield of distant composure. "She is but a commoner now. There is no need for us to act as a welcoming committee. She is the one who should be greeting us."
Mathias gaze darkened. His expression turned even colder, if such a thing were possible. He remained silent, but she didn't miss the faint, sharp tension in his jaw as he turned away.
Together, they walked toward the grand hall to await their guest, their footsteps echoing like a countdown.
The Threshold
At the iron gates of the estate, a carriage rolled to a heavy stop.
The first to step down was Leon. Beside him followed a young girl, her likeness to him so uncanny it was startling.
And then, at last, she emerged.
Talia.
Her face was a mask devoid of expression, as though carved from the finest marble. She stood perfectly still, her distant gaze sweeping over the towering estate.
Once, these stones had been her sanctuary. This was the place where she had laughed, loved, and lived.
Now, she returned to it as a mere guest.
A voice cut through her reverie—soft, yet firm.
"Mother, I believe we should go inside now."
Talia turned to her daughter. For the first time, a faint smile touched her lips. It was warm, yet beneath the surface lay something fragile, like glass ready to shatter.
"I am sorry, my dear," she murmured. "I seem to have drifted off for a moment."
With a steady breath, she stepped forward. She walked toward the doors of a past she had once thought was buried forever.
In the grand reception room, a suffocating silence hung in the air, thick enough to be felt. Mathias sat with a countenance carved from cold marble, his expression so devoid of warmth that it bordered on the severe. It was Olivia who finally dared to shatter the stillness.
"Duke of Luceron," she began, her voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and dry wit, "pray, loosen that grim mask of yours. You are not awaiting the Grim Reaper himself; do try to relax your features, if only for a moment."
A caustic, mirthless smile curled his lips. "I lack your exquisite talent for hypocrisy, Olivia. I cannot manufacture affection where there is none. Leave me be."
"Are you seeking a quarrel now?" she countered, her eyes narrowing.
"No, thank you," he replied coldly, averting his gaze. "I have quite enough burdens to occupy my soul without adding your temper to the list."
Their barbed exchange was interrupted by the entrance of Layla. Olivia's face softened instantly. "Oh, Layla, you have arrived at last."
"Yes, Your Grace," Layla murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She hovered at the threshold, her trepidation almost palpable, vibrating in the still air. When the massive oak doors groaned open once more, she flinched, caught in a visible struggle between the primal urge to flee and the solemn duty to remain.
Then, She appeared.
A woman of striking red hair stepped forward, her posture as straight as a spine of steel. Every movement was measured, imbued with a quiet dignity that even her austere, threadbare garments could not diminish. Nobility was etched into her very marrow—an innate elegance that neither time nor misfortune could erode. Closely following her was her daughter, a silent shadow with a somewhat tomboyish, stoic presence.
The moment Olivia's gaze met the mother's, the two newcomers curtsied with practiced, unwavering grace.
"Our greetings to the Duke and Duchess of Luceron."
Olivia offered a curt, silent nod of acknowledgment before gesturing for them to be seated. Yet, even as the others settled, Layla remained rigid, her head bowed low, seemingly unable—or perhaps unwilling—to meet her mother's piercing eyes.
This did not escape Olivia's keen observation. She watched as Talia meticulously avoided Mathias's direction, a calculated evasion that spoke volumes. For his part, Mathias showed no desire to welcome her. Instead, he scrutinized her with a predatory intensity. This was the woman who had discarded him, who had never once inquired after his existence.
His eyes traced the lines of her face, her hair, the cold depths of her eyes. He searched for a fragment of himself in her, yet he found nothing. The final thread of kinship—the very idea that she was his mother—withered away the moment he saw her. It was the first time he had looked upon her living face; his father had ensured every memory of her was reduced to ash when he wed Eloise.
Talia, despite her averted gaze, felt the weight of his presence. A single thought echoed in her mind: He is the living image of his father.
The tension between them was an invisible chasm, a void that no one dared to bridge. Silence reclaimed the room. Neither Layla nor Mathias spoke a word.
Olivia exhaled softly, sensing the urgent need to intervene. If Layla would not speak, she would take the lead. Breaking the heavy quiet, she turned toward the woman with a poised, regal air.
"Welcome, Mrs. Hamel. I am the Duchess, as you are aware."
The woman before her—regal despite her poverty—regarded Olivia with a gaze as cold as frost.
"Ah..." she murmured, her voice trailing off with a hint of disdain. "You are Tharon's daughter, are you not?"
A flash of sharp annoyance crossed Olivia's features. Her eyes tightened. She had introduced herself by her title, as the mistress of this house, yet Talia had pointedly chosen to define her only by her father's name.
"Yes, I am she," Olivia acknowledged, her voice carrying a sharp, crystalline edge. "In any case, I presume you are already well-acquainted with the recent... unpleasantness?"
The elder woman's response was clipped, devoid of even a flicker of warmth. "Indeed. I have perused the gazettes, and young Master Leon provided the remaining details on our journey here. I possess a sufficient understanding of the matter."
Olivia felt the deliberate brevity of the woman's words. It was a cold, calculated avoidance; Talia clearly harbored a profound distaste for her, choosing her syllables with the precision of a duelist seeking to end a match before it had truly begun. The air in the room grew heavy, the unspoken animosity settling between them like the oppressive stillness before a storm.
Mathias, who had remained a silent, brooding specter throughout the exchange, suddenly shifted. His frame tensed, as if he had finally reached the limits of his endurance. He rose with a sudden, commanding grace.
"Layla," he directed, his tone brooking no argument, "see your mother and Emilia to their quarters so they may rest. I have affairs that demand my immediate attention. You must excuse me; we shall conclude this discussion at a later hour."
Olivia watched him, sensing the jagged shards of hostility still vibrating in the air. Realizing they were little more than intruders in this fractured family gathering, she decided to follow.
"If you will excuse me as well," she murmured with poised dignity, "I shall take my leave."
As the heavy doors thudded shut behind them, sealing the tension within, Olivia reached out and caught Mathias's hand before he could stride away.
"Here," she said, offering him a small vial.
"What is this?" He arched a skeptical brow.
"Before you indulge in your usual arrogance—it isn't poison. It is merely a sedative."
"Are you peddling narcotics to me now, Olivia?"
"Hmm," she mused, "it isn't particularly potent, but it is far more effective—and dignified—than your cigars. If you don't care for it, I shall keep it for myself."
His fingers closed around her hand before she could withdraw it. "I want it."
"Very well. We shall meet later, then. I find myself quite drained and in need of repose. Pray, excuse me."
"Fine," he replied shortly. "Go."
As she departed, Leon leaned in, clapping a hand onto Mathias's shoulder with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I wouldn't mind a taste of that myself."
"Peace, Leon," Mathias snapped, his patience frayed to a thread. "This is no time for your games. Out of my sight." Leon merely chuckled, following him toward the study and leaving the bizarre family tableau behind.
Inside the room they had vacated, the silence was shattered by the sharp, echoing crack of a slap.
Layla collapsed onto the floor, her shoulders heaving with tremors as silent tears began to stain the cold, indifferent marble. "Mother, please..." she sobbed, her voice a fractured ruin. "Forgive me! I never intended for any of this to happen!"
But Talia's face remained an impenetrable mask of stone.
"You have dragged my name through the mire," she said, her voice chillingly hollow of emotion. "And now I must debase my own dignity, facing her simply to pluck you from the pit you dug for yourself. I spent a lifetime raising you with principles, and now I am forced to endure the daughter of that wretch, Tharon. It seems your father's blood inevitably drags you back to your base origins."
Emilia rushed forward, catching her sister's arm to help her up. "Mother, you are being cruel!" she protested.
Talia exhaled a weary, impatient sigh. "Emilia, do not waste your breath defending her follies. She is your senior, yet she built her entire existence upon something as fleeting and foolish as love. How many times have I cautioned you? There is no such thing as love in this life."
Layla swallowed hard, stifling the words that rose in her throat. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, the ancient bitterness that had calcified her mother's heart. Now, she was paying the price for committing the very same sin.
With trembling hands, she forced herself upright, her gaze flickering toward the door. "Mother..." she asked hesitantly, "where are you going?"
Talia did not turn back. Her voice was cold and final.
"To meet someone I should have confronted a very long time ago."