The Duke's struggle

Matthias stepped out of the Duchess's chamber, closing the door behind him with a slow, deliberate motion, as though sealing away a torrent of tangled thoughts. But the moment he turned, he found Leon standing beside the door, arms crossed, a sly glint in his eyes.

Matthias raised an eyebrow, his voice low yet firm. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you were eavesdropping."

Leon smirked, tilting his head in mock amusement. "And if I was, dear brother?"

But Matthias was not in the mood for games. He grabbed Leon by the ear and dragged him roughly toward his study, ignoring his younger brother's protests. "Ouch! Hey! Watch my ear!"

Once inside the study, Matthias slammed the door shut with a sharp motion before turning to face Leon, his gaze dark with a mixture of frustration and concern.

"Why were you eavesdropping? Tell me now!"

Leon rubbed his ear, which had turned red from the tug, and slowly massaged it as he spoke in a calm voice. "I was just curious. I wanted to know how Mother would react to what you told her."

Matthias sighed heavily, running his hand through his hair in exasperation before muttering, "I don't know what to do with you, you little troublemaker!"

The two fell silent for a moment, their gazes meeting, as if exchanging unspoken thoughts. Then, with a serious tone, Leon spoke.

"So... she wants to meet Lady Thalia?"

Matthias nodded slowly. "Yes, that's right."

"And...?"

Matthias stared at his brother in confusion. "And... what?"

Leon sighed, then spoke in a softer tone, as though fearing his words might reach Matthias's heart before he was ready to hear them. "Are you going to grant her request? I mean... I know you won't go back on your word, but that's not what I'm asking. Are you ready to meet her? After all... she is your biological mother."

For a brief moment, Matthias's features tightened, and he swallowed hard, his throat dry. He suddenly felt as though he couldn't breathe. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, rose from his seat, and began pacing restlessly, his movements agitated as Leon watched him with visible concern.

"Matthias... are you alright?"

Matthias stopped and slowly turned toward his brother, his eyes filled with a mix of uncertainty.

"I... I don't know, Leon," he breathed, his voice faltering. "She gave birth to me, but it was your mother who raised me. She never came back, never asked about me, never even tried. And now... suddenly, I'm expected to face her, to decide how I feel about her. What if the meeting doesn't go as planned? What if everything falls apart? What if..."

Sweat trickled down his forehead as his fingers clenched into fists. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. "Leon... what would you do if you were in my place?"

Leon was silent for a long moment, as though searching for an answer he didn't have. Finally, with quiet honesty, he spoke.

"I don't know, brother. But what I do know is that you look exhausted. Maybe you should rest before thinking about all of this."

Matthias exhaled slowly, as if trying to regain his composure. His voice, when he finally spoke, was more steady. "You're right. But before that, Leon, I want you to bring Lady Thalia here yourself."

Leon raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Me? Why?"

Matthias stepped closer and placed a firm hand on his younger brother's shoulder, his eyes gleaming with seriousness.

"I need you to observe her during the journey. Get a sense of who she truly is. If things don't go as planned, we need to be prepared for... alternative measures."

Leon smiled lightly, nodding in agreement. "Alright, alright. As you wish. I'll leave immediately."

"Good luck, Leon."

With that, Leon strode out of the study, heading toward his new mission. Matthias remained for a moment, his gaze lingering on the flickering shadows dancing across the walls. Then, slowly, he turned and made his way to his chamber, seeking rest... or perhaps a moment of stillness before the storm to come.

Evening descended quickly, as if the day had deliberately fled, leaving the night to envelop the mansion with its melancholic atmosphere. In her opulent study, Olivia sat engrossed in her work, her delicate fingers flipping through the scattered documents in front of her. Yet, she was not alone. Her assistant, Isabella, stood nearby, feigning busyness, though the exchanged glances between them spoke volumes.

There was something between them now, something that hadn't existed before—a tension born on that fateful night when secrets were revealed, and masks fell. Since then, the air between them had been charged, like a silent battle punctuated by terse words and meaningful glances.

Finally, Isabella broke the silence, her voice calm but laced with an unusual chill:

"Your Grace, I think I should tell you something."

Olivia raised her eyes from the papers, her tone curious: "What is it?"

Isabella hesitated for a moment before replying: "Tomorrow, we'll have guests."

Olivia narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping in, then straightened her posture slightly, trying to grasp the hidden meaning behind the words. "What kind of guests are you referring to?"

Isabella remained unnervingly calm before responding in a voice devoid of emotion: "Lady Thalia and Miss Emilia. They will arrive at the mansion tomorrow."

Olivia's eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly regained her composure, her expression sharpening. "You mean my husband's mother and his younger sister?"

"Yes."

A cold shiver crawled down Olivia's spine. Why, after all these years, had that woman decided to return? And what had prompted her to bring her daughter along? A thousand questions rushed through her mind, but she masked her unease behind the usual veil of indifference.

"And why is that?"

Isabella simply gave her a steady look before answering tersely: "I don't know. Isn't it supposed to be you who knows more than I do?"

The challenge in her voice was unmistakable—ever since her secret had been revealed, Isabella was no longer the hesitant servant; she had become sharper, bolder.

But Olivia was not one to allow control to slip away. She fixed Isabella with a stern gaze and warned, "Isabella, the person standing before you is the Duchess. It would be best if you spoke with respect."

Isabella blinked, as if realizing she had overstepped, then swallowed her retort and fell silent.

Olivia sighed, then said in a calmer tone: "Now, would you be so kind as to tell us the reason for their visit?"

Isabella replied in a neutral tone: "Leon told me that the former Duchess requested it herself, but he was in a hurry, so he didn't tell me more."

"Hmm... so that's it."

Olivia sat for a moment, trying to process the information, but doubts began to swirl in her mind like crows circling overhead. She set her pen aside, then rose, ready to leave.

Before exiting, she turned slowly toward Isabella, approached her quietly, and said in a calm voice, though with an underlying warning: "My dear, you know our agreement. You are not to tell your father anything until I allow it. It would be wise not to even think about leaking any information or documents."

Isabella smiled a practiced smile, yet her eyes gleamed with a quiet defiance. "I know very well. And you also know that you will soon be required to fulfill your promise."

Olivia raised a single eyebrow, then replied coolly: "Of course. Once I resolve this matter, I'll personally take you to your father."

She left her study and headed to her husband's office. She needed to discuss the unexpected guests, but when she entered, he was not there. The long curtains fluttered in the wind coming from the open window, and the office itself seemed untouched, as if no one had been there for hours.

A strange tightness gripped her chest. It was unlike him to be late without informing her. And he hadn't asked her to join him for dinner, which was unusual.

The anxiety led her to his private quarters. She knocked several times but received no answer. She waited, expecting him to open the door at any moment, but the silence lingered.

At that point, she made her decision and barged into the room.

As she crossed the threshold, the heavy scent of smoke mixed with the smell of alcohol hit her. Empty wine bottles littered the floor, some broken, and traces of disorder stretched even behind the bed.

But what truly widened her eyes in shock was not the chaotic scene around her, but the figure slumped against the wall—bare-chested, drowning in a sea of extinguished cigarettes.

His face was unusually flushed, his breaths shallow and ragged, as though he were burning with fever. In his right hand, a still-smoking cigarette butt dangled, but what caught her attention more were the burn marks on the palm of his hand.

A chill ran down her spine, as though a startling thought had jumped into her mind without permission. "Was he... burning himself?"

She approached slowly, kneeling beside him, studying his weary face. He seemed to be in another world, distant from everything—even his pain.

She murmured, her eyes filled with a mix of astonishment and pity: "Hah... who would have thought you had such a side, Duke Lecrone? You look utterly pitiable."

She stared at him for long moments, watching his features submerged in unknown torments, then exhaled slowly, trying to extinguish something unfamiliar that was beginning to creep into her chest. She turned towards the door, gripping the handle with a hesitant hand, then stopped. She turned back to him as if her mind compelled her to take one last glance.

She whispered to herself: "He'll be fine, no need to worry. He's Matthieu, the hero of wars. A trivial fever won't defeat him."

With feigned determination, she left, closing the door behind her as if she were also trying to shut out her thoughts.

In her room, she changed into a silk nightgown, then sat on her bed, trying to immerse herself in a book she had randomly chosen from her bookshelf. But the letters before her danced without meaning, fading behind the image of a man writhing in his solitude, surrounded by the aftermath of his sins.

She suddenly slammed the book shut, as if trying to silence it, then rose angrily and headed straight for Isabella's room. She knocked twice before the door opened, revealing her assistant, who raised an eyebrow in boredom.

"What now?"

Olivia smiled wryly and said sarcastically: "What a warm welcome, my dear partner. I came just to check on you."

Isabella squinted at her suspiciously: "Am I supposed to believe that?"

Olivia fell silent for a moment, as if weighing her words, then said with clear hesitation: "Well, I have a question."

"A question? About what?"

Olivia hesitated another moment but decided to proceed. "You know, since we—just like you said before—are sailing in the same boat, I suppose it's fine to ask you some... personal questions."

Isabella raised an eyebrow with sarcastic interest: "Personal?"

Olivia took a deep breath before speaking in a tone that seemed unaccustomed to such questions: "Under normal circumstances... when a husband is sick, what's a wife supposed to do? I mean... if the man is strong, he doesn't need her, right?"

Isabella stared at her for a moment, then slapped her forehead with her palm forcefully, groaning as if foolishness had suddenly struck her. "Please, tell me you're not talking about the Duke."

Olivia gave a small smile, replying coldly: "Of course, who else could it be?"

Isabella's eyes widened in shock, mixed with clear sarcasm, before she spoke slowly: "So let me get this straight... Your husband is sick, and instead of taking care of him, you left him alone? What a good wife you are!"

Olivia narrowed her eyes, ignoring the sting in her words. "Why do I feel like this is sarcasm?"

Isabella responded with a sideways smile: "Because it is. You always act like a clever fox, but when it comes to married life, you turn into a foolish lamb."

Olivia crossed her arms and said coldly: "Watch your words carefully."

But Isabella didn't back down. "You deserve every word. Who leaves her husband sick, claiming he's strong? Or are you just carrying out a new plan for your father, poisoning him?" she said in a questioning tone, her eyes narrowing with malice.

Olivia chuckled derisively, then leaned towards her slightly as if whispering a dangerous secret: "Darling, if I had poisoned him, would I tell you?"

Isabella fell silent for a moment, as if realizing the foolishness of her question, before sighing and saying: "So, what do you want from me?"

Olivia waved her hand dismissively. "Advice, of course. What should I do?"

Isabella answered coldly, as if the answer was so obvious it didn't deserve a question: "Go take care of him. If his condition worsens, you'll be the first one to be blamed, especially since you were the last one to enter his room."

Olivia sighed, then raised her hands in surrender: "Alright, alright. I get it."

But before she left, she turned toward Isabella and smiled a mischievous smile: "By the way, don't forget that I need your head intact to get you to your father."

Isabella felt a chill run down her spine, instinctively placing her hand on her neck, muttering almost shakily: "And if, by chance, your head is separated from your body, make sure you know you won't be the only one."

Olivia laughed lightly, enjoying the look of terror in Isabella's eyes, before turning and leaving, leaving her assistant wondering whether this woman was an ally or a delayed threat.

With quick steps, Olivia made her way through the dimly lit hallways, carrying the nursing supplies she had grabbed in haste. There was no need to think twice—this was not just an obligation, nor was it part of the power games she had grown accustomed to. It was something else... something more complicated, more unsettling.

When she reached his room, she didn't bother knocking. She pushed the door sharply and entered, expecting to find him where she had left him, lying amidst a mess of cigarettes and fever. But she stopped suddenly.

The bed was empty.

Her eyes widened with suspicion as she scanned the room, but there was no trace of him. However, she could hear the sound of water flowing from the nearby bathroom. She set the supplies aside and cautiously approached, gently pushing the door open to find a scene stranger than she had anticipated.

Matthieu sat in the bathtub, fully clothed, cold water flowing around him in a desperate attempt to lower his body temperature.

Olivia stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed, before speaking in a neutral tone: "I didn't know you preferred to bathe in your clothes, Duke."

He slowly lifted his head, water droplets falling from his wet hair, then exhaled, as if he had exhausted the last bit of patience he had. He stepped out of the tub with heavy steps, water splashing from his clothes with each movement, and ran his hand through his hair, brushing the wet strands from his eyes.

"So, you decided to come back after the pity lecture you gave earlier?" he said, his voice sharp.

He had barely finished his sentence when his legs gave out, and he collapsed onto his knees.

Without moving, Olivia stared at him for a moment before responding coldly: "How about taking care of yourself now, instead of throwing sharp remarks? If you hadn't been pretending to sleep back then, I wouldn't have said anything."

He struggled to rise, leaning on the edge of the tub, then looked at her from the corner of his eye. "So why did you come back? Do you need something?"

Their gazes met, as cold as ever. "No."

He remained silent for a moment, as if her single word carried more weight than it appeared. Then he turned his gaze away and said calmly, "Olivia, I need to change my clothes. You can wait in the room."

But she didn't move. She stood there, as though she hadn't heard him, then tilted her head slightly and said with the same coldness: "Wasn't it you who once told me you've already seen everything? Well, I'm just doing the same."

He looked at her for a moment, then exhaled in resignation. "Do as you wish. I no longer care."

Olivia left the bathroom, leaving him to change in peace. She walked to the window, wiping the steam from it with her fingertips, watching the night stretch beyond the glass. It wasn't long before she heard his voice calling her.

"Since you're here..." He paused for a moment, then continued in a calm voice, though this time it held something different—something she hadn't expected from him. "Close my buttons. My hand's injured."

She turned towards him, seeing him standing in front of her with his shirt half-open, his fingers struggling futilely with the buttons. She said nothing, only stepped closer and began to fasten them one by one.

She could feel his warmth up close, seeping from his skin despite the cold water that had just cascaded over him. And as her fingers worked silently, she couldn't help but stare at the burns that adorned his hand.

He noticed her gaze and slowly hid his hand.

But he didn't move it away completely.

He gestured to the chair beside him. "Sit down. I need to talk to you."