Chapter 62: The Wilted Blessing

All eyes shifted toward the Luceron family, their bodies stiffening under the collective weight of the court’s scrutiny. For Matthias and Leon, the Duke’s words were a devastating confirmation of their darkest fears.

Matthias turned his head slightly toward Olivia, his voice a low, jagged tremor of betrayal. “You knew?! All this time, you knew?”

“This is not the time for accusations,” Olivia hissed back, her eyes fixed forward, cold and unwavering. “Keep your nerves steady.”

Just as the tension reached a breaking point, the massive oak doors creaked open once more. Eloise entered.

She was a vision of fragile majesty. Wrapped in cascading silk, her hand rested firmly upon an ivory cane, each step measured and heavy with a regal grace.

Though the pallor of illness still clung to her features, her nobility radiated from her like a flame that refused to be extinguished.

The hall gasped. Some guests rose instinctively; others sat frozen, as if they were witnessing a ghost reclaim its flesh. Elvira’s confident smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of sheer disbelief. She shot a look toward Olivia, who remained eerily calm.

“Ha,” Elvira whispered to her father, her eyes narrowing. “It seems my elder sister has learned a few little tricks of her own.”

Eloise spoke, her voice thin but carrying the authority of a queen.

“Thank you, Miss Tharon, for reminding me to bless my daughter. Though sickness has kept me confined, there is no malady powerful enough to bar me from this day.”

Elvira’s lips parted to retort, but she hesitated. She was looking at the woman, but her instincts screamed that she was speaking to a stranger.

“Yes… that is exactly what I thought, Your Grace,” she managed to say. She then leaned toward her father, her voice a frantic hiss.

“She cannot be alive! I am certain she died. If so… who is this person inhabiting that body?”

Ignoring the toxic silence, Eloise stepped forward toward the altar. She raised a trembling hand and placed it gently against Layla’s cheek.

“My blessing upon you, my dear child,” she murmured. “May your marriage endure, and may your crown never weigh heavier upon your head than your heart can bear.”

Layla stared back at her with a chilling detachment. To Layla, these words were nothing but a hollow performance—it was impossible for her mother to truly mean them.

“Thank you… Duchess,” Layla replied, her voice as cold as the marble beneath her feet.

Talia—clad in the skin of Eloise—turned toward Olivia with a predatory smirk, stepping forward to command the attention of the entire room.

“Excuse me,” she announced, her voice projecting with a newfound sharpness. “If I may have your attention, I have a short announcement to make.”

A wave of confusion rippled through the hall. Olivia let out a low, cynical chuckle under her breath. I knew that bitch would try it.

“As you can all see,” Talia continued, her “Eloise” persona beginning to crack, “I have come to offer my blessing. However, I have never been one for deception. In truth, I am not—”

The words died in her throat as if an invisible hand had tightened around her windpipe. Her body seized, her eyes bulging, before she collapsed onto the cold marble floor.

She began to writhe in violent convulsions, a thick white foam seeping from the corners of her mouth.

Emilia and Layla rushed toward her with cries of horror, while Matthias and Leon stood frozen, watching the collapse with a slow, chilling realization.

“Oh, my mother-in-law!” Olivia shrieked, her voice a masterpiece of manufactured panic.

“My God, it seems it’s happening again! Isn’t that right, Isabella?”

Isabella instantly donned a mask of tragic despair, her eyes brimming with practiced tears. “I cannot believe it… it’s happening a second time!”

“What do you mean by that? What is wrong with Miss Isabella?” one of the onlookers questioned.

“The Duchess suffered from an epileptic fit,” Isabella replied through a veil of tears.

“We insisted she shouldn’t attend, but she…” Her voice trailed off into a sob, while Olivia leaned in, feigning a comfort that looked more like a performance.

Whispers began to ripple through the hall like a rising tide. “Summon the Duchess’s physician at once!” Mathias bellowed, his voice cutting through the murmurs.

The Queen’s command was swift: “Bring the Royal Physician immediately.”

“There is no need, Your Majesty,” Mathias countered, lifting Talia in his arms. “Her own doctor understands her condition best.”

At that moment, a seed of doubt was sown in the Queen’s mind. She glanced at her former husband; his face was a mask of cold stone, void of any emotion.

But as she turned her gaze, she caught Olivia—a mocking smirk danced on her lips as she stared at the Duchess.

Talia, suspended in a state near death, held Olivia’s gaze. Despite her fading consciousness, she struggled to lift a single finger, a silent, desperate accusation that seemed to scream: “It was her. She did this.”

A seed of doubt was planted in the Queen’s mind. However, when she turned her gaze toward Olivia, she found a different story.

Olivia was staring back at her with a smirk so subtle it was almost invisible, her eyes tracking the near-dead Duchess with a look that whispered the truth: It was me. I did this.

“She truly is a fool,” Olivia hissed into Isabella’s ear. “Did she honestly think I wouldn’t anticipate her betrayal?”

“Will she be alright?” Isabella whispered back.

“I don’t know,” Olivia replied with chilling indifference. “It depends on her strength. Perhaps she’ll be paralyzed, or something of the sort. It hardly matters to us now.”

Olivia then straightened her posture and turned to the crowd, her face smoothing into a calm, reassuring mask. “Pray, forgive us, everyone. The Great Duchess is merely a little indisposed. She will be fine. Please, let the celebration continue.”

The celebration resumed with a hollow vigor, the guests pretending as though nothing had transpired. Yet, for those who understood the choreography of power, the air was thick with the acrid scent of a staged accident. Suspicion clung to the golden hall like a fog.

The orchestra’s strings swelled once more to fill the void left by the departure of Matthias, Leon, and the unconscious Talia. The music was a thin veil, masking the jagged edges of a gala that had already bled.

“Isabella,” Olivia whispered, her eyes scanning the room like a strategist. “Watch things here. I must deliver Anne to her governess and return. And stay clear of Elvira—keep your guard up.”

Isabella managed a faint, teasing smirk despite the chaos. “Oh? Are you actually worried about me, Olivia?”

“Shut up,” Olivia snapped, her voice low and sharp. “Instead of scrutinizing my words, you would be better off watching that girl over there—the one who hasn’t taken her eyes off your husband since the ceremony began.”

Isabella’s expression shifted, her eyes darting toward the woman in question.

“Hah. I am well aware of her,” she replied with a weary sigh. “But I have no desire for a spectacle right now. The atmosphere is suffocating enough as it is.”

“Good,” Olivia murmured, adjusting the infant in her arms. “Keep your eyes open. I won’t be long.”

As Olivia turned to slip through the crowd, she felt the weight of the Empress’s gaze. Suddenly, the tension was punctuated by the crystalline crash of glass against stone. A young woman had stumbled, her hand slipping. Wine erupted in a dark torrent, splashing across the hem of Isabella’s gown.

“You!” Isabella gasped, looking down at the stain. “You have ruined my dress. Do you not owe me an apology?”

The young woman—Miss Mill—turned slowly, her lips curling into a smile that blended mockery with sheer cruelty. She flicked open her jeweled fan with a languid, bored motion.

“What was that? An apology? From me? And who exactly are you that I should stoop to such a level? You dare accuse me, a daughter of a Great House.

while you… are nothing but the daughter of a fallen Baron?”

“Miss Mill,” Isabella countered, her voice trembling but firm, “even as the daughter of a fallen Baron, I stand here as a member of the House of Lucron. Do not forget that. Now, apologize.”

Miss Mill threw her head back in a peal of false, delighted laughter.

“Oh, how precious! Tell me, do you truly believe he considers you his wife? Look around you; while every lady stands proudly beside her husband, you linger here alone, abandoned. The wife of a Marquis? No, my dear… you are, and always will be, nothing but a disgraced noble wearing a borrowed crown.”

None had noticed Olivia approaching. “Excuse me, ladies.”

Miss Mill froze. The arrogance drained from her face. She stammered, sinking into a nervous curtsy. “Ah… Duchess Olivia, it is such an honor to—”

Her words were severed by a sharp, resounding slap. Miss Mill recoiled, collapsing onto the floor. “My Lady! Lady Lucron… why? Why would you do such a thing?”

Olivia did not answer immediately. Instead, she raised a slender hand, beckoning a passing servant. She plucked a glass from the tray and held it high.

“Well, well… the daughter of a fallen Baron, was that what you called her?” Her smile widened into a bitter taunt. “I see no one in this hall more ’fallen’ than you.”

With those words, she upended the glass over the girl. Olivia did not stop there—she reached for another glass, and then another, until the rich, dark liquid completely drenched Miss Mill, staining her gown like blood seeping into silk.

Olivia tilted her head, admiring her handiwork. “Oh… Miss Mill,” she said coolly, “I truly think you ought to change your dress.”

The silence was broken by a sudden, sharp burst of applause. From across the room, a voice called out: “Bravo, Your Grace! What marvelous friends you two make.”

It was Elvira. She slinked closer, leaning toward Olivia. “I never imagined you were roaming the Duchy to make allies… and even defending them. How charming, truly.”

“What are you trying to say, Elvira?” Olivia asked, her voice level.

“Hmm… I wonder what would suit her better? Blue flowers? Or perhaps violets to crown the beauty of her hands? Don’t you think so, my dear sister?”

A thousand unspoken questions ignited in Olivia’s mind. Flowers? Blue flowers? What does she mean?

Elvira placed a hand on Olivia’s shoulder, her voice a chilling whisper. “I shall see you soon, sister. Very soon.”

Before Olivia could process the threat, a stern voice came from behind her. “Olivia. You will follow me.”

She turned to find the Empress standing there, her expression severe. Olivia cursed a thousand times under her breath. This was all I needed. Every wretch in this palace has decided to descend upon me at once.

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