Chapter 50: The Bitter Release

A single word, uttered in her feverish delirium, struck him with the force of a physical blow: “Return.”

Mathias felt the air leave his lungs. Return? To a cage? When had she ever truly been free? A sudden, sharp confusion pierced through his composure.

“What are you saying, Olivia?” he demanded, his voice trembling with a gravity he hadn’t intended.

“What do you mean, ’once more’? What are you—”

“And why does it concern you?” she interrupted, her voice a jagged edge of cynicism.

“You speak as though you care, yet your every action screams the opposite.”

Mathias exhaled a ragged sigh, his gaze drifting to the lifeless, pale figure upon the bed. A knot of cold grief tightened in his chest.

Olivia caught the direction of his eyes, and a ghost of a whisper escaped her lips, meant only for herself.

I wanted to be better for him, she thought, the realization tasting like ash. But what is the point? My presence only drags him further into the mire.

For Kyle, I secured his happiness with the woman he loves.

But Mathias… he does not need me. I am his ruin, not his remedy. A ’good wife’? What a cruel joke.

A hollow, jagged laugh broke from her—a sound of pure derision at her own plight. Her fingers tightened around the glass vial, her eyes fixed on it with a desperate, final clarity.

“You laugh?” Mathias snapped, his alarm surfacing as anger. “Now? How far do you intend to take this provocation?”

“Provocation?” Olivia looked at him, her expression hauntingly calm.

“No, my dear. I truly tried to make this marriage work. But I see now that it is best if we never inhabit the same space again.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing,” she replied softly, a terrifying serenity settling over her features.

“Only that, as I promised, I shall set you free from your suffering.”

Before he could process the finality in her tone, she raised the vial. Mathias lunged forward, his heart hammering against his ribs, but she was already beyond his reach. Before he could bridge the distance, the glass met her lips.

Terror turned his blood to ice. The glass shimmered mockingly under the candlelight.

“Olivia!” he roared, his voice a desperate command that shattered the silence of the room.

He reached her just as she swallowed the last of the liquid, wrenching the vial from her grasp. But as his fingers closed around the glass, the truth settled in with a sickening lightness. The bottle was empty.

Olivia began to sway, the world beneath her feet dissolving into a tide of encroaching shadows.

She drifted toward him, a haunting smile gracing her lips as she cradled his face in her palms. Her eyes searched his—those eyes so clouded with agony.

“Why the sorrow?” she whispered, her voice like wilting silk. “You should be celebrating. This is your release.”

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?!” he cried, his voice fracturing into a jagged sob. He seized her shoulders, shaking her with a frantic strength, as if he could physically jar the venom from her veins. “What have you done, Olivia? Answer me! Spit it out!”

But the light in her eyes was already flickering, her lids growing heavy with a terminal sleep. Her body turned to lead, collapsing into his arms like a petal severed from its stem.

“Olivia…” He tapped her cheek, his touch a desperate plea.

“Olivia, stay with me!Hey, Look at me! Speak!”

There was no reply. Only the pale shimmer of her silver hair stirred as he held her, the silken strands veiling her ghost-white face. He glanced at the vial; the level had dropped significantly. She had swallowed enough to silence a heart forever.

A wave of cold, paralyzing horror crashed over him. “God… no.”

He pulled her limp form against his chest, panic drowning all reason. His mind screamed for action, yet his limbs felt carved from heavy stone.

In a fit of futile, agonized devotion, he pressed his lips to hers, attempting to draw the poison out by force. He spat the bitter liquid away and crushed her to him once more.

“Please,” he whimpered, his hands trembling with a hollow, frantic necessity. “Open your eyes. I cannot lose you, too. I cannot.”

Finally, a raw scream tore from his throat: “Help! Someone, help me!”

The door hit the wall with a violent crash. Leon burst in, breathless and disoriented.

“Mathias? What has happened—”

He froze. The scene before him was a tableau of ruin: his brother, pale and shattered, clutching Olivia’s lifeless body like a man who had only just realized the magnitude of what he was about to lose.

“Leon,” Mathias gasped, his voice broken and hoarse.

“Take her… take her to her room! Fetch the physician now! I… my legs… I cannot stand. Please!”

Leon asked nothing. One look at Olivia’s slack features and Mathias’s haunted expression told the entire story. Without a word, he gathered her into his arms.

“I have her,” he muttered, rushing from the room.

Mathias remained on his knees, shivering violently. The vial was still clutched in his hand, the acrid ghost of the poison lingering on his tongue.

But it was her smile—that final, tragic smile—that burned in his mind. He did not know if he had just witnessed her final moment, or the beginning of the end for them both.

Leon laid her gently upon the bed in the nearest wing—his own quarters. The physician arrived in a blur of motion shortly thereafter.

After an agonizing silence, the doctor finally stepped back, wiping his brow. “By some mercy, the dose was small,” he murmured. “The toxin had not yet taken hold of her blood. She will recover by nightfall; she should awaken soon.”

An hour had bled into the silence of the manor when a low moan finally escaped Olivia’s lips.

Her eyelids fluttered, a tremor passing through them as if she were waking from a slumber that had lasted a century.

Her limbs felt weighted with lead, her breath shallow and fragile. Gritting her teeth against the fog clouding her mind, she raised a trembling hand to her temple.

As her vision adjusted to the amber glow of flickering candlelight, she realized she was not in her own quarters.

The furniture was unfamiliar, and the air held the faint, masculine scent of treated leather and ancient parchment. Her heart quickened. This was not even Mathias’s room.

She turned her head slowly, finding a man seated beside the bed. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, bright with an unsettling vigilance.

It was Leon.

He watched her closely, elbows resting on his knees and fingers interlaced with a calm grace.

“You are awake at last, sister-in-law,” he said, his tone cool but devoid of overt cruelty. “How do you fare?”

The breath caught in her throat. The question seemed innocent enough, but the weight of the previous hour crashed over her like a freezing wave:

her hand around the vial, Mathias’s voice screaming her name, and the lingering bitterness upon her tongue.

“So, this is your chamber, brother-in-law?” she managed, her voice a dry rasp. “Hmm. Yes… I am well.”

Leon tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. “Physically, perhaps. You will recover. But I am not inquiring about your body.”

Olivia blinked, confused.

He leaned back, his gaze never wavering. “I am asking about your mind. Is everything… quite alright up there?” He tapped a finger meaningfully against his temple.

The implication hit her like a physical slap. “I beg your pardon? What are you saying?”

“It is a blunt question, I admit,” he replied, as if discussing the weather.

“But I wonder—do you suffer from some manner of mental affliction? Should we be… concerned?”

Indignation began to stir in her veins. She pushed herself up into a seated position, though the effort made the room spin.

“That is a peculiar thing to say to someone who nearly met their end.”

Leon studied her in silence, arms crossed over his chest. Then, he exhaled a short, dry sound that was almost a laugh—a note of pure derision.

“You look well enough, I grant you. But your mind?

That is a different tale entirely. Tell me, Olivia, does a sane person drink poison of their own volition?

Do you treat your life like a common copper coin to be tossed away in a tavern wager?”

His words were like frost. She stared at him, her lips parted, but no retort came.

“Frankly, it was a foolish gambit,” Leon continued ruthlessly. “Reckless. I expected better of you.”

Her composure finally fractured. “Watch your tongue, Lord Leon,” she snapped, her voice rising. “After all, you too suspect me of murdering the late Duchess.”

He tilted his head and let out a sharp, mocking chuckle. “Murdered the Duchess? Truly? Do I look like a man who puts his faith in fairy tales?”

The anger vanished from her face, replaced by a flicker of genuine shock. “Then… you do not believe I did it?”

He gave her a long, calculating look. “No. You may be many things—arrogant, perhaps even cold-hearted—but you are not a fool.

To kill the Duchess in such an obvious manner? That would be utter stupidity.”

She blinked, unsure if she had just been cleared of a crime or insulted to her face. “Then why,” she asked softly, “are you so certain of my innocence?”

A sly, predatory smile touched Leon’s lips—the kind that never reached the eyes. He leaned forward, the candlelight carving sharp shadows into the line of his jaw.

“Because,” he said smoothly,

“had it been your handiwork, the body would never have been found. No witnesses. No evidence. Just an empty bed and a trail of unanswerable questions.

You have buried more than one skeleton in your past, haven’t you, Olivia? And yet, not a single one has ever pointed back to you. If you were the killer, we would not be having this conversation.”

A slow, cunning smile finally mirrored his own. “Ah… they did not err when they named you the ’Fox of Locronan.’”

He rose, adjusting his cuffs with practiced elegance. “A title I wear with pride, sister-in-law.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in one last time.

“It is true that I know you are not the killer. But I also know something else…”

He tilted his head.

“I know that you know exactly who murdered my mother.”

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