"A second chance has been granted," she whispered, her reflection in the looking-glass a haunted observer.
Memories, sharp as shattered glass, tore through her, recalling every past transgression.
It had been a long night, indeed.
In the morning, she swept from her chamber, finding the retinue of servants already lined up to greet her.
"Good morning, my Lady."
She passed them without a word, directing her steps straight to the dining hall. Taking her seat at the expansive table, her gaze lifted to find Isabella, Leon's wife, seated with graceful composure at the far end.
Isabella's simple green gown enhanced the quiet beauty of her soft brown hair and arresting green eyes. She ate with a serene elegance that stood in stark contrast to the house's tense atmosphere.
The servants' glances spoke what their lips could not: they adored her, secretly wishing she were the Duchess instead of Olivia.
Isabella's eyes met Olivia's, and she rose quickly, bowing apologetically.
"My Lady, I am so sorry, I did not realize you were here. Good morning."
Olivia stared at her for a moment before replying,
"You may sit."
It was a surprisingly decorous gesture. Normally, Olivia would have unleashed a torrent of abuse, reminding her of who the Duchess was—but today, she simply bid her take a seat.
The servants began to whisper among themselves, but Olivia's sharp look silenced them. She slammed her hand on the table and rose abruptly.
"Some of you do not know your place. Do I need to teach you, you rude fools? Whispering about me in my presence?"
Her anger flared, but only for a fleeting second. The servants scattered in fear.
Isabella made a move to leave, but Olivia gestured firmly.
"You. Sit down. I wasn't referring to you, Lady Isabella—you are not a maid."
Obediently, Isabella returned to her seat. Olivia toyed with her food before speaking again.
"Lady Isabella, have you been managing the estate in my absence?"
"Yes, Your Grace. If there is anything you wish to change…" Isabella hesitated, then added cautiously,
"I apologize, but I do not believe it is possible to increase your wardrobe budget any further. It already amounts to half of the estate's funds."
A tremor of shock ran across Olivia's face. She had been extravagant—but to consume half the estate's budget? It was a revelation.
"I wasn't referring to that," Olivia said, concealing her astonishment. "I merely wished to know who was performing my duties."
"I have been, Your Grace, but the Duke approves all my decisions."
"Very well. From now on, I shall manage the estate myself."
Isabella's spoon clattered onto her plate in stunned surprise.
"Of course, Your Grace. They are your rightful duties."
"Finish your meal," Olivia commanded.
"Take me to the study when you are done."
In the study, Olivia found a mountain of documents awaiting her attention. Though she abhorred paperwork, she was a noble—trained in the art of estate management.
She put on her spectacles, picked up a pen, and began to review the papers: budgets, inventories, reports—all with methodical precision.
Isabella watched her warily, suspicion etched into every glance.
"If you are going to stare, at least sit down," Olivia said without looking up.
"I am not staring, Your Grace. I am ensuring that all is well."
Olivia smiled faintly.
"As if I would believe that. Do not worry; I will not kill you. You are my sister-in-law, after all."
Silence settled between them, but Olivia felt the weight of Isabella's doubt. She ignored it, focusing instead on the work before her.
Hours passed, the sun sinking in hues of gold, until finally, Olivia spoke.
"There are some papers that require my signature. How were these handled?"
"Your Grace, I would send them to the Duke, and he would review and sign them."
Her eyes widened. Mathias had quietly taken on her responsibilities for years without complaint, never once chastising her neglect.
A pang of guilt pierced her like a sword's point.
"Isabella, instruct the head chef to prepare a feast for the knights returning from the border."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. Do it."
Without another word, Olivia left the study. Alone in her chamber, she lay upon her bed, her thoughts a storm.
Tomorrow, she would face Mathias. How could she, after everything?
The burden of remorse was unbearable, but for the first time, it was accompanied by a flicker of resolve.
The next morning, the palace bustled with activity as the Duchess's orders for a grand feast were carried out.
Servants hurried through the corridors while Olivia sat quietly in the study, absorbed in her work beside Isabella. The air between them was thick with silence until Olivia broke it with a simple question.
"What time will the knights arrive?" she asked, her soft voice carrying a trace of tension.
"I believe they will arrive at dusk, My Lady," Isabella replied.
"Ah, very well."
And silence returned, both women lost in thought. Their relationship was no more than a superficial connection—a mere dynamic between manager and subordinate.
There was nothing more.
"Let us finish the day's work," Olivia said dismissively. "I have things to ponder. You may leave."
Isabella departed without a word, as she always did. Olivia, now alone, found herself engulfed in reflection.
Why had Isabella never questioned her actions in their previous life? Even then, she had always remained silent, always following Olivia's decisions without protest.
But the question remained unanswered in her mind, and soon her thoughts turned to her husband.
The thought of seeing him again, after everything, was a psychological blow. She had never loved him—not truly—but facing the man she had sentenced to death just yesterday was an indignity she was unprepared for.
She paced her study, irresolute, her anxiety mounting with every passing moment.
As the hour progressed, she moved toward the window, her arms tightly folded, her eyes scanning the horizon.
She had to see them—her knights, returning from the front.
And there was Mathias, at the head of the procession, his posture unwavering, his presence commanding.
The sight of him—strong and resolute—was enough to make the hearts of every woman who watched him flutter.
Olivia's gaze clung to him, her emotions a tangled mix of sorrow, pity, and regret.
He may not have been the perfect husband, but he had stood by her until the very end, despite her indifference.
As they neared the gates, Olivia knew what she had to do.
It was the duty of the lady of the manor to receive the returning knights.
Of course, she had never done it before—but today was different.
She walked toward the door, finding Isabella standing there, waiting.
"Isabella!" Olivia called.
"Yes, My Lady?" Isabella turned, a slight surprise flashing in her eyes.
"What are you doing here?" Olivia asked, her tone tinged with impatience.
"I thought you wouldn't come, so I planned to receive the knights on your behalf, as I always do, My Lady."
Olivia stared at her for a moment, her expression unreadable, before dismissing her with a wave.
"Stay then," she said, her tone softening slightly.
The gates opened, and the knights rode in, their arrival met with cheers from the castle's eager servants.
But a strange hush fell over the crowd as they noticed Olivia standing at the gate.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence, followed by whispers that quickly spread among the servants.
"Is that really her?"
"It can't be! The Duchess never receives us."
For a long moment, no one could comprehend what was happening.
Mathias turned to his brother, Leon, his voice laced with disbelief.
"Leon, is that the ghost of my wife standing there? Impossible. Olivia never comes down to greet us."
Leon, equally bewildered, leaned closer.
"You say it's impossible? I'm more surprised that the ghost is standing so close to my wife. Is this a fever dream? What in God's name is happening here?"
The crowd remained frozen, staring in shock, until Olivia's sharp gaze pierced through them.
Her voice, though cool and distant, cut through the air.
"Welcome back," she simply said.
The words were the coldest welcome imaginable—two simple sentences uttered without a change in her rigid expression.
She turned and walked back into the castle, her footsteps echoing in the stunned silence.
She was afraid to raise her eyes and meet Mathias's, fearing what might be revealed on her face.
"Welcome, Leon," Mathias muttered, still staring at her retreating figure. "Was that truly my wife? Do you think she has finally lost her mind?"
Leon laughed, though his chuckle held a hint of pity.
"Man, I truly feel sorry for you. You've been suffering for two years, and now you have to deal with her madness."
Mathias's eyes hardened, his voice low but firm.
"Leon, there is a limit to what you can say."
Leon fell silent, swallowing his words.
Though Mathias had spoken with a touch of sarcasm, there was no mistaking the protective undertone in his voice.
Even with others whispering about Olivia's cold welcome, he would not tolerate any disrespect toward his wife—not even from his brother.
He turned toward the soldiers, his gaze dark with authority.
"Does anyone here have a problem with the Duchess's greeting?"
The soldiers fell silent, avoiding his eyes as they stood at rigid attention.
Despite Olivia's cold demeanor, respect for her position as Duchess was instinctive.
"No, my Lord," one spoke, his voice strained. "We are grateful that the Duchess herself saw fit to receive us."
Mathias's expression softened slightly, but his words remained firm.
"Good. Let us remember that next time."