She cradled the child gently in her arms, a tender smile curling upon her lips without thought or effort—as if the infant's warmth had lit something soft within her. Olivia could see her own reflection in the baby's delicate features, and the likeness tugged at her heart with a bittersweet pull. She rocked her slowly, rhythmically, until the baby's tiny breaths evened out and her restlessness faded into quiet.
Lost in the moment, she barely registered the sound of the door creaking open behind her. Someone had entered the room, but she paid no mind; her thoughts were wholly consumed by the little girl she held—by Anne. She assumed it was Kira, of course. Who else would come in unannounced like that?
But as she turned casually, her breath caught—and the baby nearly slipped from her arms. A sharp gasp escaped her as she tightened her grip instinctively, clutching the child close to her chest as though shielding her from a beast.
There she was.
Seated with an unnatural calm, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders like fire set against porcelain skin. Her golden eyes glowed with a predatory stillness. It wasn't just her presence that chilled the room—it was her silence. Her beauty was undeniable, almost disarming, but Olivia alone knew the truth that hid beneath that flawless veneer. She knew the rot beneath the rose.
A slow, mocking smile unfurled across the woman's lips. She raised one hand in a languid wave, her voice like honey laced with venom.
"Hello, sister. It's been a while, hasn't it?"
A cold shiver traced its way down Olivia's spine. Perhaps it was the ghost of old pain, the muscle memory of past torment carried in her very bones at the sound of that voice. Her smile, once serene and genuine, twisted into something wary, something simmering with restrained fury.
"What are you doing here?" Olivia's voice was sharp now, protective. "How did you get in?"
Elvira rose slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each movement like a predator drawing near. There was no rush in her steps—only certainty, danger veiled in elegance.
Sensing the approaching threat, Olivia moved swiftly, laying Anne down gently on the bed, her gaze never leaving the intruder. She stepped forward, putting herself between the child and the woman she once called family.
The two stood face to face now, a quiet tension crackling in the space between them like the breath before a storm.
"Is that how you greet your sister," Elvira purred, "after such a long separation?"
Olivia's voice rang out, edged with raw hostility.
"What do you want from me now?"
Elvira tilted her head slightly, her golden eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.
"Hmm… is this your niece I've heard so little about?" she murmured, letting her gaze drift lazily toward the child. "Imagine my surprise, finding out through the newspapers. One would think a sister might mention something so… monumental."
She extended a hand toward the baby with deliberate elegance—fingertips poised to brush the child's cheek—but Olivia recoiled instantly, shielding Anne as if Elvira's very touch might burn.
A soft, mocking laugh escaped Elvira's lips.
"Oh dear… it seems you don't want me to touch her. Olivia, are you joking? Do you even remember who I am?"
The tension broke with the sharp crack of a slap—so sudden, it echoed in the air like thunder. Olivia hit the ground hard, the pain blooming across her cheek before she could even process the attack. Before she had time to rise, another blow landed. And then another.
Elvira wasn't just a woman. She was a force of nature, a living legacy of their bloodline's cursed strength—ten times more powerful than any ordinary man. And now that fury was raining down on Olivia like a tempest.
"You'd do well to remember your place, dear sister," Elvira hissed, her voice ice-cold yet furious.
Groaning, Olivia tried to push herself upright, her only thought to reach Anne, to protect her. But just as her fingertips scraped the floor in desperation, a searing pressure crushed her hand to the ground. Elvira's heel dug into her skin with ruthless intent.
"Still trying?" she said, voice soft and cruel. "Tell me, my beloved sister—why so silent now? I came all this way to see you… and this is the welcome I receive?"
Olivia bit back a cry, pain lancing up her arm. But the rage in her eyes blazed through the agony.
"W-what was that?" Elvira taunted, leaning closer. "Speak up. I couldn't quite hear you over the sound of your pride shattering."
"Damn you," Olivia spat between clenched teeth. "You filthy—"
A dangerous smile twisted Elvira's lips.
"You're quite skilled at making me angry," she whispered, her voice low and shaking with tightly coiled rage. Then, with one swift motion, she grabbed Olivia's chin, forcing her to look up.
"Listen closely, you ungrateful little wretch," she hissed. "I didn't come here to play games. I came to see with my own eyes what Father told me. That you've turned your back on your family—that you chose your husband over us." Her grip tightened. "That you betrayed your own blood."
Elvira's gaze dropped slowly, lingering over Olivia's exposed throat and collarbone, her lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.
"Oh? So you're living a romantic little life now," she drawled, her voice laced with venomous mockery. "I see the marks your beloved left on you… How touching."
Her eyes gleamed with a sudden wicked idea. "But wouldn't it be even more poetic," she murmured, "if you bore my marks as well? A little reminder—etched into your skin—so you never forget me."
Without warning, she reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a slender, gleaming dagger. The steel caught the light, gleaming like ice.
Before Olivia could react, Elvira seized her wrist with brutal force. Olivia's fragile frame writhed against her grip, struggling in vain. But Elvira's strength was monstrous—unnatural—and resistance was meaningless.
She dragged the blade across Olivia's flesh with surgical precision, slowly carving letters into the soft underside of her hand.
Her name.
Letter by letter.
A signature written in agony.
Olivia screamed, her body twisting from the searing pain, but Elvira only smiled wider—delighting in her torment like a child admiring her artwork.
At last, she rose, her movements slow, almost graceful, savoring the sight of her sister crumpled and shaking on the floor. But the suffering wasn't enough. No—her thirst for cruelty ran deeper than mere blood.
Her eyes shifted.
To the child.
"Oh?" she breathed, stepping lightly toward the bed. "So this is the little crown princess... What a fragile little thing."
Terror dawned in Olivia's expression as she saw where Elvira's attention had landed. Her voice cracked with desperation.
"Please… Elvira, do anything you want to me. Hurt me. Kill me. But don't touch her."
Elvira burst into laughter—wild, unhinged.
"Hahaha! Oh, sweet Olivia… still grieving that little boy, are you? So tragic. But this child isn't even yours. Why the act? Isn't it more sensible to worry about your own miserable life?"
Olivia's expression shifted—fear replaced by something steely, defiant.
But Elvira had already moved toward the tea tray. Her hand hovered over the steaming kettle, her smile turning crueler.
"I wonder," she mused aloud, "what would they say if the heir to the throne were disfigured… right here in the duke's chambers? What a scandal that would be."
Understanding dawned on Olivia like lightning, and with a cry, she flung herself across the room—shielding Anne with her own body just as Elvira hurled the scalding contents of the teapot.
A shriek tore from Olivia's throat as the boiling liquid splashed over her back and shoulders, her skin instantly blistering. But she didn't move. She clung to Anne tightly, protecting her like a shield of flesh and bone.
Elvira tilted her head, watching the scene with cool detachment.
"Oh, how pitiful you are, Olivia," she said with a sigh, shaking her head. "Still so dramatic. So… weak."
She turned toward the door at last, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve.
"I suppose I'll take my leave," she said airily. "But rest assured—your punishment for betraying our family has only just begun."
She paused in the doorway, casting one final glance back.
"Oh—and I almost forgot. I left a little present for you and your darling husband. It wouldn't be proper to come empty-handed, after all."
She winked, her tone gleefully malicious.
"I do hope you both enjoy it. Sweet dreams… sister."
With that, she disappeared into the shadows beyond the door, her laughter echoing behind her like the last note of a nightmare.
No one could hear her screams.
The sound barrier Elvira had cast over the room remained intact, enclosing Olivia in a suffocating bubble of pain and silence. Her throat was raw, her body trembling, blood soaking into the silk sheets beneath her like spilled ink. Burned, branded, broken—she lay there, barely conscious, clutching Anne with what strength remained in her failing arms.
Then—
A knock.
Soft. Hesitant. As if the person beyond the door already sensed that something was wrong.
A voice followed, familiar and gently urgent.
"Your Grace? It's me… Isabella. May I come in?"
Olivia couldn't answer. Her lips parted, but no sound came—only the shallow pull of breath. The door creaked open anyway, and Isabella stepped in.
What she saw brought her to a stunned halt.
The room, once pristine, was a scene of devastation. Blood-stained linens. A shattered teapot. Olivia, collapsed in agony, her body blistered and torn, curled protectively around the child. The air stank of burned flesh and scorched cloth.
"My god…" Isabella whispered, rushing forward.
She gently took Anne from Olivia's arms and laid the child carefully on the couch, wrapping her in a nearby shawl. Then she turned back, hands shaking.
"Olivia… what happened?"
The duchess barely lifted her head. Her voice was a breath, ragged and hoarse.
"Take her… from me…"
Isabella knelt beside her, unable to understand what to do first—too much blood, too many wounds. Then something caught her eye. A name. Carved into Olivia's skin.
Elvira.
Isabella's heart dropped into her stomach.
"She… she was here?" she whispered.
Olivia's eyes, dulled by pain, flared with a flicker of rage.
"That lunatic… was here," she rasped.
"You mean… your sister?"
A hiss of fury escaped Olivia's cracked lips.
"Don't call her that," she snapped. "Don't ever call her that again."
She tried to sit up, wincing with each movement. Isabella moved to support her, but Olivia waved her off weakly.
"Help me clean these wounds. Quickly. Before someone sees me like this."
Isabella blinked, stunned. "What? No—no, you need a physician immediately. You can't possibly—"
"Isabella," Olivia said, her voice iron despite the pain. "Help me. And be quiet. If anyone sees me in this condition, the wedding will be delayed. Investigations will start. And I know how far they are willing to go when they want to sabotage something."
A look of disbelief crossed Isabella's face.
"Are you saying they did all this just to stall a wedding?"
Olivia looked her dead in the eyes.
"For the last time… I am not her sister. And yes, I told you already—Elvira doesn't need permission, or motive, or reason. She only needs an idea. And once she has it, nothing—nothing—stops her."
Silence fell as Isabella opened the emergency satchel and pulled out a vial of potent healing elixir and a salve known for rapid tissue regeneration. She worked quickly, her hands trembling. The magic in the medicine stung like fire. Olivia clenched her teeth, her body seizing with each wave of pain. But she didn't scream this time.
She was too busy thinking.
What did Elvira mean when she said she left a gift?
What surprise had she promised her and Mathias?
As the salve bubbled and hissed against her burned flesh, Olivia's thoughts drifted to the shadows Elvira had left behind. She knew this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.