Chapter 82: Silver Strands

“I… I don’t know. She said she was going to see someone, but she never returned,” Isabella stammered, her voice failing her.

“Someone? Who?” Matthias’s voice was like a whip.

Before she could answer, the gravel crunched under the wheels of another carriage. A man stepped out—Mr. Carten, Cedric Alistair’s personal aide. He approached Matthias with a chillingly polite bow.

“Greetings, Duke Luceron. I trust you are in good health?”

“Mr. Carten,” Matthias growled, his hand twitching near the hilt of his sword. “I am occupied. Return later.”

Carten noticed the simmering fury in the Duke’s eyes and adjusted his spectacles with a smirk. “Is this preoccupation perhaps due to the Her Grace, the Duchess?”

Matthias turned on him instantly, his suspicion flaring. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Are you searching for her whereabouts?”

Matthias didn’t wait for an answer. He lunged forward, seizing Carten by the collar with such violence that the man’s feet nearly left the ground. “You had better start speaking. Do you know where she is?”

“Easy, Your Grace,” Carten choked out, maintaining a sliver of his smugness. “Such behavior is beneath a man of your stature. Unhand me, and I shall tell you.”

Matthias released him with an impatient shove. “Where. Is. My. Wife.”

“She is with Lord Alistair,” Carten replied, straightening his coat. “She arrived with him last night and remained for the evening. The Lord asked me to convey the news so that you would not… fret over her safety.”

The fire in Matthias’s eyes didn’t just dim; it froze. The explosive rage vanished, replaced by a terrifying, hollow stillness.

“Ha… Cedric Alistair,” he whispered, a ghostly, bitter smile touching his lips. “I see. Thank you for informing me.”

The transformation was jarring. It was as if someone had poured ice water over a raging bonfire, leaving only cold ash. Leon, sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere, stepped in to bridge the silence.

“Thank you for the update, Carten,” Leon said firmly. “You may leave. We will send a carriage to collect the Duchess shortly.”

“Oh, no, no,” Carten interrupted, his voice dripping with false courtesy. “There is no need for that. My master will see to it that Her Grace is returned personally. Do not trouble yourselves.”

“We will—” Leon began to protest, but Matthias’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

“It’s fine, Leon. There is no need to send a carriage.”

Carten bowed once more and departed. Matthias turned and walked back toward the mansion without a word, leaving Leon and Isabella standing in the wake of the news.

“Leon, what is happening?” Isabella whispered, her face pale. “Why isn’t he going to get her?”

Leon turned to Isabella, his expression hardening into one of suppressed anger. “It would be for the best, Isabella, if you limited your visits to my brother’s wife.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t wish to cast stones,” Leon said, his voice heavy with disappointment, “but it isn’t I who speaks—it’s the rumors. Cedric Alistair was Olivia’s lover before this marriage. For her to spend the night there… I don’t know how else to put it.”

Isabella stood frozen, the blood draining from her face. “Impossible. I don’t believe she would ever do such a thing. There must be a mistake.”

Leon sighed, watching Matthias’s retreating figure grow smaller in the distance. “I hope you’re right… for everyone’s sake, I hope the rumors are wrong.”

In the Alistair Duchy, Olivia’s eyelashes flickered open only to be met by those haunting obsidian eyes staring down at her with an unsettling intensity.

“You’re awake, my sweet,” Cedric murmured, his voice a low, melodic purr. “You look quite breathtaking, even in the first moments of consciousness.”

“Where am I?” she rasped, her throat feeling as though it had been scrubbed with sand.

“My chambers.” He handed her a glass of water.

Olivia took it, but paused. She brought the glass to her nose, inhaling deeply, her eyes never leaving his. “This isn’t poisoned or drugged, is it?”

Satisfied that the water was clean, she drank it down.

“You fainted from the sheer intensity of the toxin last night,” Cedric explained, leaning back with a languid grace. “I brought you here. You’ve slept the entire night away. It seems you’ve grown quite fond of your slumber, haven’t you?”

“The whole night?” Panic flared in her chest like a sudden flame. “Oh, God. This is bad.”

She threw the covers aside, intent on fleeing, but was jerked back by a heavy, metallic weight. She looked down in horror at her ankle; it was bound by a polished steel chain, bolted firmly into the stone wall.

Cedric watched her with a look of pure satisfaction. “That chain suits you, Olivia. You look like a nightingale in a cage—a beauty that must be locked away for safekeeping.”

“Cedric, this isn’t funny!” she screamed, her voice echoing off the walls. “Remove this stupid chain right now!”

“And why should I?”

“Have you lost your mind? I have to return! If Matthias discovers my absence…”

The room suddenly erupted. A violent, suffocating aura exploded from Cedric, the sheer pressure shattering the mirrors and crystal chandeliers into a rain of jagged glass. The porcelain vases on the mantle disintegrated.

His face was a mask of primal fury, the veins in his neck bulging as his playful facade crumbled. He lunged forward, gripping Olivia’s face so tightly her jaw ached.

“You know the rules, dearest,” he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. “Do not let that man’s name pass through those lips. You know how it enrages me.”

Olivia swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had seen this monster before; he was not a man one reasoned with. “Calm down… just calm down. There’s no need for this.”

“No need?” Cedric’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “I taught you how to fight, Olivia. I taught you how to wield poisons to defend yourself against any man who dared lay a hand on you. And yet, you failed to use them on that Luceron wretch. You have no right to speak his name in my presence. Do you understand?”

Seeing the glint of madness in his eyes, she nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand. But truly, I need to go back. Will you please unlock this?”

“Of course I will,” he said, the aura vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He smiled, though the malice remained. “But I require a price.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing grand. Just a single lock of your hair.”

“My hair?” She blinked, confused. “Fine, you can take it. What’s stopping you?”

“Not now,” he chuckled, his fingers tracing the silver strands. “I will claim it when the time is right. For now…”

With a casual flick of his wrist, the magical lock snapped open, and the chain fell away. She was free.

“I will escort you back to your palace,” he stated, standing up and smoothing his coat.

“Why?” she asked warily.

“I have my reasons, my little sugar,” he replied with a wicked grin. “I have my reasons.”

The atmosphere inside the carriage was suffocatingly thick, a heavy silence punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of wheels against stone.

Olivia’s mind drifted back to when she was sixteen—the first time she had met Cedric. Back then, he had appeared as a savior, the one who had taught her how to hold a blade and survive the shadows. But beneath his kindness lay a jagged, jagged obsession.

He was a creature of Tharon’s alliances, a man who looked at her now with the same chilling intensity an art collector might reserve for a masterpiece in a gallery.

Finally, the carriage groaned to a halt at the gates of the Luceron estate. Before she could descend, Cedric caught her hand, his grip firm as he helped her down. He did not let go. Instead, he raised her knuckles to his lips, his eyes gleaming with a triumphant light.

“Olivia,” he murmured, his smile widening. “I want that lock of hair now.”

“Now? Here?” she whispered, glancing nervously toward the palace.

“Now. This very instant.”

He produced a small, silver-handled knife and placed it in her palm. With a trembling hand, Olivia severed a strand of her silver hair and handed it to him, desperate to end this encounter.

“I will see you soon, Olivia,” he said, his voice carrying an intentional volume.

She didn’t notice that his smirk wasn’t directed at her at all; it was a poisoned barb aimed at the man standing like a shadow beneath the stone archway of the palace entrance. Cedric had seen him from the moment they pulled up.

As the carriage pulled away, Olivia turned toward the house, her heart sinking into her stomach.

Matthias was there. He stood perfectly still, his frame radiating a cold, terrifying fury. He began to clap—slow, mocking strikes of his palms—as he descended the steps toward her.

“I have marched off to war more times than I can count,” he began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the morning air. “I have bled for this crown and faced death on a dozen fronts, yet I never received so much as a handkerchief from you.”

He stopped just inches from her, his shadow swallowing her whole. His eyes flickered to the spot where she had just cut her hair.

“But for the Duke of Alistair? For him, you cut a lock of your very hair. Beautiful,” he hissed, his face a mask of bitter irony. “Truly, truly beautiful.”

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