Be my wife for a night

They sat together on the couch, the room enveloped in a heavy silence for a brief moment. She turned toward him, her eyes steady as she spoke.

"Give me your hand."

He looked at her, puzzled, his voice laced with confusion. "What?"

"Your hand is injured and needs treatment. Give it to me."

He stared at her, his face etched with disbelief. "You... you want to treat me?"

With an expression of mild annoyance, she responded, "Yes, I do. Is there anyone else in the room?"

She reached for his hand, gently placing it near her, and retrieved a box of medicine. She applied a special ointment to his injury, then carefully wrapped it with bandages. Meanwhile, his face remained frozen in disbelief, as he muttered, his voice tinged with skepticism, "Is this poison?"

She turned toward him, her eyes widening in surprise. "What? I must have heard you wrong."

He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "You heard me, Olivia. What is this sudden kindness, if not poison? I should warn you—if you kill me, they might execute you."

A slight sigh escaped her lips. "I've treated you, and you say this to me? And besides, I'm too young to be a widow."

He paused for a moment, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, you'll kill me when I'm older?"

Her anger flared up, but she masked it with a barely concealed smile. "My dear husband, didn't anyone tell you that you become foolish when you drink alcohol?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because that's exactly what you're doing. Who tells someone they've treated them that they've been poisoned?"

His tone turned serious as he shifted his posture. "Well, you were giving a speech about sympathy before you left my room, and now you're back, treating me? I don't think you're the type to care for the wounded. So who sent you?"

His reasoning made sense, and even she, for a fleeting moment, had questioned the sincerity of her actions. She sighed and finally relented. "Isabella told me to."

He looked at her, intrigued. "Told you what?"

"She said I should treat you and stay with you if you were sick."

He sneered, a mocking smile curling on his lips. "I see. She told you it's not in your nature."

She fell silent, choosing not to argue. Instead, she focused on his injured hand, studying his expression—empty and unreadable.

"So, when did you start smoking?" She asked, attempting to steer the conversation subtly, but he interrupted with cold precision.

"You could just ask me directly. No need to beat around the bush. I know you want to know how I got these burns."

She stared at him, her voice firm. "Why did you do this? And what about all these bottles of alcohol? Did you drink them all?"

He glanced at the empty bottles and shrugged. "Well, not all of them. But most of them."

He deliberately avoided answering her first question, and she, in turn, chose silence, unwilling to press him further. A heavy stillness settled between them, his expression hardening into something unreadable—serious, almost sorrowful.

Then, he spoke, his voice low, almost hesitant.

"Olivia, just for tonight... can you be my wife? Not the daughter of your father?"

His words caught her off guard, a flicker of confusion flashing in her eyes. "Of course, I'm your wife. Why would you even ask that?"

He exhaled sharply, running his hands over his face as if trying to erase the tension in his features. "Do you love your mother?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Tell me, do you love her as your mother?"

Something about the way he asked unsettled her. She had never truly thought about it—not in the way he wanted her to. Honesty felt like the only choice.

"That's... a difficult question," she admitted. "But if you want my real answer—I've always seen her as an empress, not a mother. I never thought of her as mine. Sure, she gave birth to me, but a biological accident doesn't make someone a mother. I've always felt like an orphan."

His posture softened, a slow smile forming on his lips as if her words had given him exactly what he needed. "Thank you."

"For what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"For your answer. It was exactly what I needed to hear."

Her eyes narrowed. "Does this have something to do with Lady Thalia?"

At the mention of the name, his expression darkened again. "In a way, yes. She's arriving tomorrow. I assume Isabella already told you?"

"Yes, she did. But why the sudden visit?"

"The former duchess requested to see her."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The former duchess asked for her? That's... unusual. But why?"

"I don't know. But it was her condition for adopting Lila."

"Hah. That's... certainly unexpected."

Fatigue crept into his face, his posture loosening. Without asking for permission, he lay back, resting his head in her lap. She stiffened for a second before remembering his earlier request: Be my wife tonight. She sighed, deciding not to protest, allowing him to relax.

"You still haven't answered me," she murmured after a while. "Why did you burn your own hand like that?"

"You really weren't going to let that go, were you?"

"No."

He exhaled through his nose, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm not sick, if that's what you're worried about. It's just... I lose control of my magic when I'm overly anxious. The pain helps me focus. And smoking helps me stay calm."

"I see," she said softly. "Well, at least your face isn't flushed anymore. I suppose that means you're less anxious now."

"Maybe because I don't feel worried anymore."

She shifted slightly, pulling her legs up onto the couch.

He flinched. "What are you doing?"

"You asked me to be your wife, didn't you? I'm not spending the night sitting upright. Come here properly—you can sleep in my arms if you want."

His breath hitched slightly, but he quickly composed himself. "Ah... if you say so."

Adjusting his position, he curled up against her, wrapping his arms around her like a child seeking warmth. Within moments, he was asleep.

She watched him in silence, her fingers running absentmindedly through his hair.

"You look like a child when you're drunk," she thought, her expression tinged with sadness.

"If things had been different... if I weren't the daughter of that monster, maybe we could have been just a normal husband and wife. But for tonight, sleep in your wife's arms. Tomorrow, you can go back to seeing me as your enemy's daughter."

She woke to the gentle sound of a voice breaking through the veil of sleep, soft yet persistent.

— "My lady, my lady... it is morning."

Slowly, she opened her eyes, the golden light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains. Her limbs felt heavy, reluctant to move, but she pushed herself upright, taking in her surroundings. The unfamiliarity of the room struck her for a moment before realization dawned.

— "Ah… right. I fell asleep in Matthias' chambers. What time is it?"

— "It is nine o'clock, my lady. The Duke has instructed me to bring your attire here. I have also prepared your bath."

A brief silence followed before she responded, her voice composed, yet distant.

— "Very well. You may leave. I will summon you later."

— "As you wish, my lady."

Once alone, she allowed her gaze to drift across the room. Every trace of the previous night had been meticulously erased—no misplaced object, no lingering sign of the emotions that had once stirred within these walls. It was as though nothing had happened at all.

With a sigh, she reached for the buttons of her dress, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders before stepping into the warm bath. The water embraced her like a comforting whisper, easing the weight pressing against her mind. She closed her eyes, surrendering to the fleeting illusion of peace.

And then—

— "Good morning."

Her eyes snapped open.

She turned her head toward the doorway, where Matthias stood, his silhouette framed against the dim corridor beyond. His gaze was unreadable, distant yet unwavering.

— "Oh. It's you… Good morning."

His lips curved in the faintest hint of a smirk, though his tone was unimpressed.

— "Cold, as always. Hurry up. I'll be waiting in the room."

And with that, he was gone, leaving her once again with nothing but silence and the still water around her.

By the time she stepped out of the bath and dressed, the cool morning air had begun to settle in. She moved toward him, her expression unreadable.

— "Last night, I helped you with your buttons," she remarked, voice steady yet laced with something unspoken. "Now, return the favor."

Matthias didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, hands deftly fastening the delicate buttons along the back of her dress. His touch was impersonal, mechanical—like a tailor dressing a mannequin.

— "She will be arriving soon," he said without looking at her.

A pause.

— "Do you want me to receive her?"

— "No. Do as you please. I only thought you should know."

His hands left her, and with them, any lingering warmth.

She turned to face him fully then, searching his face as though she could glimpse something of herself within his features. Perhaps she could. The dread twisting inside her stomach was not unfamiliar—it was the same unease she had always felt when facing her mother. A quiet voice of inadequacy, whispering in the shadows of her mind.

But she would not show it. Not now.

— "Then let us go to the receiving hall," she declared, her voice composed, distant. "She is just another commoner now. There is no need for us to welcome her. She should be the one to greet us."

Matthias' gaze darkened slightly at her words, his expression turning even colder, if that were possible. He said nothing, but she noticed the faint tension in his jaw as he turned away.

Together, they made their way to the grand hall, where they would await their guest.

At the gates of the estate, a carriage rolled to a stop.

The first to step down was a young man—Leon, his sharp features carrying a striking resemblance to someone from within the house. Beside him, a young girl followed, her likeness to him just as uncanny.

And then, at last, she emerged.

Talia.

Her face was devoid of expression, as though carved from marble. She stood still for a moment, gazing at the towering estate before her, her eyes distant. Once, this had been her home. A place where she had laughed, loved, and lived.

Now, she entered it as a guest.

A voice cut through her reverie, soft yet firm.

— "Mother, I believe we should go inside now."

Talia turned, looking at her daughter, and for the first time, a faint smile touched her lips. It was warm, but beneath it lay something else—something fragile.

— "I'm sorry, my dear," she murmured. "I seem to have drifted off for a moment."

And with that, she stepped forward, toward the doors of a past she had thought she had left behind.