Chapter 6: The Duchess’s Lesson

“You possess an impressive audacity, my dear,” Olivia stated, her voice a chill, venomous silk. “But you have absolutely chosen the wrong person to test that little quality on.”

She brutally yanked the maid’s hair harder, forcing the girl to sprawl wretchedly on her knees. Then, an iron-clad hand clamped around the maid’s chin, lifting her face for inspection. Oh, you little wretch.

Isabella stood frozen nearby, merely observing the scene, her face pale. The other maids were statues of terror, barely breathing, their bodies trembling with the primal fear that they, too, might be caught in this terrifying reckoning.

“So,” Olivia continued, her tone dripping with cruel sarcasm, “you actually believed a pathetic, transparent scheme like that would meet with success?” She pressed the sharp heel of her shoe onto the maid’s delicate hand, grinding it into the stone floor. The maid let out a choked, desperate wail of pain.

Olivia merely smiled, a cold, predatory curve of the lips, watching the girl writhe. “Allow me to enlighten your miserable little mind, darling: My husband, despite whatever minor flaws you imagine he possesses, is mine. He is mine, do you understand?” She leaned closer, the threat heavy in the air. “And anyone who dares to trespass upon what belongs to me will suffer in ways that defy even your most fearful imaginings.”

“Please, my Lady,” the maid whimpered, her voice splintered with terror. “I didn’t mean anything by it… I was only joking!”

“Joking?” Olivia scoffed, her eyes alight with lethal scorn. “Ah, yes, ’joking.’ Exposing yourself to my husband and calling it a jest. How terribly charming.” She turned swiftly to one of the nearby maids. “You. Bring me the whip. Immediately.”

The maid hesitated for a fatal second, her body shaking uncontrollably as she handed over the coiled leather instrument, as if it were a deadly viper. Olivia took it with that same cold smile, testing its weight and balance in her hand before locking her gaze back onto the maid, whose face had gone utterly, ghastly white.

“Lift your skirt, you filthy little trollop,” Olivia commanded, her voice firm and utterly devoid of mercy. “Show me how far you thought it necessary to raise it for my husband. I wish to see it for myself.”

The maid gasped, breaking down completely as she scrambled to cling to Olivia’s gown, sobbing hysterically: “Please, my Lady, do not make me do this! I beg you, please!”

“Lift it!” Olivia’s sharp voice thundered through the sudden silence of the room.

With hands that shook violently, the maid lifted her skirt slightly above her knees, but this paltry display was not nearly enough for Olivia. The duchess brought the whip down with a fierce, whistling crack against the maid’s legs. A second, a third, over and over, until the room was utterly filled with the maid’s ear-splitting screams.

“Why are you screaming so?” Olivia inquired with mock sweetness, the lashes continuing. “You are the one who asked for this, aren’t you?”

After what felt like an eternity of vicious blows, the maid collapsed onto the floor, her body unable to sustain her weight. Angry, swollen red welts crisscrossed her legs, blood already beginning to seep from the deeper cuts. Olivia tossed the whip carelessly aside, then crouched beside the broken girl, her voice dropping to a poisonous whisper:

“You admitted to unbuttoning the top of your apron for him, did you not? Show me that as well.”

“No, please!” The maid wailed incoherently. “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t! Please, don’t hurt me anymore!”

But Olivia did not wait. With deliberate, sickening slowness, she reached for the maid’s apron and began unfastening the buttons herself. A deadly silence consumed the room. As Olivia undid the final button, she yanked the apron off with a violent, final jerk, leaving the maid utterly exposed and deeply humiliated.

“Do you know,” Olivia murmured, her eyes fixed on the girl’s trembling form, “what frightens a woman more than death itself?”

The maid, shaking uncontrollably, barely managed to choke out: “W-what, my Lady?”

“To be stripped of her dignity before the eyes of others,” Olivia replied coldly, the final sentence a pronouncement of doom.

She flung the apron away, leaving the maid scrambling hysterically to cover herself with her own hands. The other maids and servants stared, some with raw pity, others simply too petrified to move. It was at this breaking point that Isabella finally stepped in.

“Duchess,” Isabella interjected, her voice strained, “I believe this has gone far enough. She has certainly learned her lesson.”

Olivia turned to her, her expression unreadable. “And her attempt to seduce my husband was not excessive in your eyes?”

Isabella stammered for a moment. “Ugh… I understand she deserves punishment, but this is… cruel.”

A frigid silence descended upon the air before Olivia finally responded, her tone laced with chilling, absolute detachment:

“Very well. Since you asked, I shall stop—this time. But allow me to offer some advice, sister-in-law. When it concerns my husband, I strongly suggest you do not interfere again. I spare no one who touches what is mine.”

She swept past Isabella with icy indifference. Isabella sighed deeply, her face contorted with disgust, then motioned to the remaining servants.

“Cover her up. Her sight is sickening enough.” She turned to leave, adding over her shoulder: “And put her in the dungeon.”

The maids rushed forward with a spare cloth, then dragged the maid away to the dungeon, as she could no longer walk. For the broken girl, the cold, merciful embrace of the dungeon was infinitely kinder than the wrath of the Duchess.

In the days that followed, the castle atmosphere became thick and suffocating with pervasive fear. The servants, already wary of Olivia, now trembled at the mere thought of committing even the slightest, most insignificant error. This suffocating tension held fast until that fateful night.

A frail woman stood at the massive gates, barely able to hold herself upright, let alone the small child she cradled in a piece of cloth that was clearly expensive. Her face was a canvas of pure agony; swollen green eyes brimming with tears, and bruises scattered across her delicate body. Her desperate voice trembled:

“Please, let me in! I need to see the Duke… I am his sister!”

Her pleas were met with mocking laughter from the guards. One of them replied with undisguised scorn: “And I am the Duke’s father!”

They all roared with amusement while the woman simply sank down before the massive gates and wept.

Upstairs, by the tall window, Olivia stood contemplating the night. The cold air seeped through, yet her eyes remained fixed on the distant gates. Since Mathias’s departure, she had developed a nightly habit of standing there, a strange, silent fear gnawing at her—a dread that he might leave and never return—as if her steadfast gaze alone could somehow summon him back. Tonight, however, the faint sound of distant laughter drew her attention.

“What is happening down there?” she murmured, narrowing her eyes, straining to discern the scene below.

It looked as though the guards were speaking to someone, but the distance and the darkness obscured her view.

“Kira, do you know what’s going on down there?”

The maid replied, “It’s just some woman, Your Grace. She’s been sitting by the gate since the evening, claiming she wants to see the Duke. The guards sent her away, of course. Don’t trouble yourself.”

Olivia’s brows knitted together. “Is it not dangerous for a woman to be surrounded by men at this hour?”

“I don’t think they’d touch a woman with her child, they aren’t beasts,” Kira said, a hint of doubt in her voice.

“A child? She has a child? In this cold? How old is it?”

“Ah, I don’t know, my Lady. I think it’s a tiny infant.”

Olivia’s heart fluttered with heavy, painful memories.

She moved towards her wardrobe, grabbed her heavy cloak, and threw it over her shoulders, descending the stairs rapidly. A strange, compelling urge drove her forward.

The castle courtyard was eerily quiet, the late hour having lulled most inhabitants into deep slumber. Her footsteps echoed softly as she approached. The guards’ voices grew louder, sharp and arrogant:

“I said, get lost! Be gone, you wretch! The Duke isn’t here, and the Duchess won’t stoop to meet the likes of you—unless you’re here for other things!”

A sly smile spread across his face, a gesture that made Olivia pause and recoil slightly for a moment.

Meanwhile, Olivia, who had been watching, clasped her hands behind her back, raising an elegant brow in surprise. She advanced quietly, stopping directly behind the guard. He did not notice her presence until he spun around, startled by her shadow. His face instantly blanched, and he dropped to his knees:

“Your Grace! My apologies for the delayed greeting!”

Olivia smiled coldly. “Why are you dismissing a guest without informing me?”

He knelt in terror, stammering, “My Lady, I didn’t mean… She’s lying! I only wanted to drive her away!”

Olivia’s voice, icy and measured, sliced through his panicked response: “Whether she stays or leaves is my decision, not yours. Why was I not informed of her presence?”

The guard fumbled desperately for an answer, but before he could speak, the woman lunged forward, collapsing at Olivia’s feet. Her trembling hands clung desperately to the Duchess’s cloak as her tear-streaked face tilted upward, a wretched plea spilling from her lips:

“Please, Your Grace! Help me… I am the Duke’s sister—don’t you recognize me?”

Olivia gazed at the woman intently, as though piecing together a puzzle. The torn yet expensive garments suggested she was a fugitive; their reasonably fine quality now marred by time and hardship. Her green eyes, swollen from crying, were clouded with anguish, and bruises marred her skin. The child in her arms, wrapped tightly in thin cloth, breathed softly, fragile against the cold.

Ignoring the onlookers, Olivia knelt beside the woman, her fingers gently brushing the tangled hair from her face. In that moment, a jolt of recognition struck her. The resemblance was undeniable. The contours of her face bore a striking similarity to Mathias, despite the slight difference in hair color.

“What is your name?”

“L-Lila, Your Grace.”

Olivia paused before offering her hand, helping the woman to her feet. With a quiet sigh, she unfastened her own cloak and wrapped it around Lila’s trembling frame.

“Very well, Lila. Come with me.”

She led Lila directly inside the castle, leaving the guards stunned by her actions. Upon reaching the guest quarters:

“I will return shortly. Please make yourself comfortable, clean up, and change your clothes.”

“Kira, fetch food for the guest, clean clothes, and prepare a warm bath.”

Kira cast a scrutinizing glance at the disheveled visitor but refrained from questioning her mistress’s orders.

After some time, Olivia returned to check on her guest. The moment she entered the room, Lila rose hastily, bowing deeply in gratitude.

“There’s no need for that, Lady Lila,” Olivia said softly. “After all, you are my husband’s sister.”

“What? You mean—you believe me?”

“Of course, I do.”

Overwhelmed, Lila grasped Olivia’s hands, her tears falling anew. “Thank you for believing me. I never imagined my brother would marry someone as kind as you.”

Kira, standing in the corner, struggled to suppress a chuckle, while Olivia remained solemn.

Olivia’s gaze lingered on Lila before she spoke again. “It seems you share a mark with Mathias—a beauty spot beneath your left eye.”

Lila’s hand flew to her face in surprise. “Yes, I do.”

“It’s lovely,” Olivia remarked simply.

Blushing, Lila replied shyly, “You’re the second person to tell me that.”

Olivia rose gracefully. “I won’t press you for answers tonight, but tomorrow, I’ll expect an explanation. Rest well.”

In the early morning, the silence that enveloped the Loucron Palace was shattered by the voice of an enraged man, booming through the halls like thunder as he shouted:

“Where is that whore?! Bring her to me now! Or I will smash everything here! Lila, you bitch, come out now!”

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