Chapter 89: A Dance with the Devil

Olivia opened her mouth to offer some grand, aristocratic wisdom, but found her throat dry and the words missing.

“Umm… well,” she began, the syllables feeling clumsy and foreign. “The first night. I assume… you know the basics, correct?”

Lillian’s face deepened into a feverish scarlet. “Well, yes. But… is there something I should do, besides simply adorning myself?”

Olivia stared at her, a wave of internal panic rising. She cursed the girl silently. By the heavens, I am the last person on this earth you should be asking. My own first night was nothing short of a catastrophe.

A jagged memory pierced through her composure. She saw herself again, sitting on the edge of a cold, expansive bed, draped in a slip of white silk.

She had drowned her terror in sedatives until her mind was a fog, yet her body had still betrayed her, trembling at the mere thought of her husband’s touch.

When Matthias had entered the room that night, it had felt as though a predator had cornered its prey. She had tried to mask her fear behind a veil of icy indifference. He had stood there, equally cold, his own profound discomfort radiating from him like a physical chill.

“Are you ready?” he had asked, his voice hollow and devoid of warmth.

To refuse would have been to shatter her pride. Fortunately, the sedatives had finally begun to take hold, numbing the sharp edges of her reality. “Yes,” she had whispered. “I am ready.”

In the dark theater of her mind, his touch that night had felt like a violation; to him, it must have felt as though he were coupling with a corpse.

There had been no soft words, no lingering kisses, no tenderness to speak of. It was a clinical execution of duty—a hollow, painful ritual dictated by wretched traditions that neither of them had truly desired. It had been a night of profound isolation.

Lillian’s wide, expectant eyes snapped Olivia back to the present.

“My Lady…?”

“What?” Olivia snapped back, her voice a jagged whisper.

“I’ve been calling your name, but you didn’t respond,” Lillian said, her brow furrowing with gentle concern.

Olivia swallowed hard, forcing the ghosts of her own cold, clinical wedding night back into the dark recesses of her mind. She smoothed her expression into a mask of regal indifference.

“I have no specific wisdom to share with you, my dear,” she began, her voice regaining its silken edge. “Simply leave everything to your husband. He will know what must be done.”

She paused, a flicker of dark irony dancing in her eyes. “Just pray that his heart is… large enough for you to truly enjoy the experience.”

“His heart?” Lillian repeated, her brows knitting in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

Olivia offered only a cryptic, knowing smile. For a moment, the girl remained puzzled, until the double entendre finally struck home. Lillian let out a sharp, embarrassed cough, her face erupting in a blush so deep it rivaled the sunset. “Ahem… I—I see. I understand, My Lady.”

A perverse sense of satisfaction washed over Olivia as she watched the girl fluster and turn various shades of crimson; it was a welcome distraction from her own hollow memories.

A moment later, a sharp rap at the door broke the tension. Matthias strode in, with Joffrey trailing behind him like a shadow. Lillian leaped to her feet, her instincts taking over as she moved to drop into a deep, reverent curtsy. “My greetings to you, Your Grace—”

Olivia reached out, her fingers firm but gentle as she pulled the girl back into her seat. “Did I not tell you? No bowing today.”

“But My Lady, it is the Duke—”

Matthias interrupted, his voice a low, steady rumble. His eyes were riveted on Olivia, tracking the subtle tightness around her mouth, even as he spoke to the bride. “If the Duchess says you shall not bow today, then you shall not. Listen to her.”

Lillian blinked, her breath catching. “You… you are the Duchess?” she gasped, the weight of the title finally crashing down on her. “I am so sorry, I—”

“Enough with the apologies,” Olivia said, waving a hand to dissipate the rising air of formality. “Focus only on your wedding.”

Overcome with emotion, Lillian threw her arms around Olivia once more. “I swear, you are the kindest noble in this world. Truly, I thank you from the bottom of my heart!”

Matthias fought a losing battle to hide a derisive smirk. The idea of Olivia being “the kindest” was a comedy he wasn’t prepared for. Feeling his mockery, Olivia stepped forward and ground her heel—or rather, the weight of her foot—sharply onto his.

“If you don’t wipe that cursed grin off your face,” she hissed under her breath, “I’ll break your toes next time instead of just treading on them.”

Matthias’s expression flattened into immediate, stoic seriousness as he looked down at her. “Is this better?”

Olivia rolled her eyes with an impatient huff. “Just… let us go.”

Lillian took Joffrey’s hand, her fingers interlacing with his, and the newlyweds moved toward the door, ready to face the music and the cheers of the waiting crowd.

Matthias let his gaze travel slowly from the crown of Olivia’s head down to her feet,

She wore unremarkable shoes; in fact, they were quite shabby. A flicker of genuine bewilderment crossed his features as he spoke, his voice laced with a newfound curiosity.

“Did you truly surrender your earrings and your shoes to the bride? What prompted such a sudden bout of magnanimity, Olivia?”

“Well,” she replied softly, her voice carrying a rare, hollow weight. “She reminded me of myself.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It is nothing,” she said, cutting the moment short with a sharp finality. “Let us simply go.”

They emerged from the chambers, trailing behind the newlyweds into the heart of the celebration. Vows were whispered like sacred incantations, and the air hummed with the vibrant melodies of the feast as the ceremony concluded.

The groom approached them, bowing low with a respectful smile. “Your Grace, would you mind if the Duke joined us for a few moments?”

Olivia looked at her husband, then back at Joffrey. “You may take him,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I shall remain here.”

Matthias rose, offering her a lingering look. “I shall return shortly.”

Olivia watched them go, a solitary figure seated on the periphery of a sea of merriment. She was an island of ice in a room full of fire; after all, she had no real place among these people.

From her seat, she watched Matthias—really watched him. A smile, broad and unrestrained, split his face—a look of soul-deep happiness he had never once bestowed upon her.

He laughed from his heart, his silhouette eventually dissolving into the swirling, rhythmic masses of the dancers until he was lost to her sight.

The local women huddled in corners, their whispers like the dry rustle of autumn leaves behind her back, but she paid them no heed. To her surprise, a strange, crystalline peace settled over her; despite the deafening noise of the common folk, she felt a profound, almost comforting stillness.

Suddenly, a girl draped in a beige cloak approached. Her head was bowed in a mock show of reverence as she dipped into a low curtsy before Olivia.

“Would the Duchess grant me the honor of this dance?”

The girl lifted her head, and Olivia’s icy blue eyes collided with a pair of burning, predatory yellow orbs. The peace Olivia had felt vanished instantly.

“If you do not wish for a scene,” the stranger whispered, her voice a low hiss, “you will rise.”

Olivia reached out, her hand steady despite the sudden surge of adrenaline. “I shall.”

She had never been one for the dance floor, but the figure before her left no room for refusal.

Their bodies moved in synchronization with the rhythm, a performance that felt utterly suffocating to Olivia. She forced herself to endure the proximity, her movements mechanical and cold.

“What is it you want, Elvira?” Olivia asked, her voice a low, guarded murmur.

A jagged, mocking laugh escaped the girl. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking what you are doing here, big sister?”

Olivia remained silent, focused on the beat of the music, but Elvira pulled her closer, her grip tightening until their personal space vanished.

“I simply came to enjoy this joyous occasion,” Elvira hissed into her ear. “Do you truly believe he loves you? That he will simply forgive every one of your sins? You are a grand fool, sister.”

Olivia placed her hands upon Elvira’s neck, arching back gracefully as the dance dictated a dip. Elvira’s eyes scanned the room with predatory precision.

“Are those not your earrings? The ones the bride is wearing so proudly?” She glanced down at Olivia’s feet. “Oh, and you gave her your shoes as well. How touchingly… sweet.”

“Elvira, enough,” Olivia snapped, her eyes darting around the room. “Stop the riddles and the games. People are starting to notice us.”

A terrifying, hollow smile stretched across Elvira’s face.

“You shared your things with her. You know how I loathe it when you show kindness to anyone but me. I am a jealous creature, sister, and I find I have no patience for rivals. Shall I poison her tonight? Or simply dispose of her?”

Olivia froze mid-step, the music continuing to swirl around them as she glared at her sister with a simmering, explosive fury. “Elvira!”

“What, sister?” Elvira stepped into her space, her breath ghosting against Olivia’s skin. She traced a single, icy finger down the length of Olivia’s bare back, sending a violent shudder through her frame.

“Your heart has grown soft and fragile; you’ve returned to that pathetic empathy of yours. How about we move this conversation elsewhere? If you comply, perhaps that little bride might wake up in her lover’s warm embrace tomorrow… rather than within the stone walls of a cold, silent grave, so what’s your answer.”

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