A profound, suffocating silence descended upon the hall—heavy, unbroken, and almost sacred in its stillness. Every gaze in the room was fixed upon her: a collective, unnerving stare that pressed down like a physical weight. On those faces, she read an unmistakable tension—a brittle unease that betrayed a deeper, unspoken sentiment.
It was a kind of unwelcomeness she had never before encountered—not even within the cold, ceremonial confines of the Duchy itself. This was no ordinary discomfort; it was a hostile quiet, a palpable rejection.
Then, the groom—a figure rigid with nerves in his formal wear—took a hesitant step forward. He offered a greeting that sounded forced and breathy.
"Welcome, Your Grace, the Duchess," he began, before faltering. His voice dropped to a mumbled, almost apologetic tone. "I... I truly was unaware you would honor us with your presence. Had I known, I would have prepared a far more suitable place for you. Please, take my seat here."
The offer was extraordinary—shocking, even. He gestured toward the ornate chairs designated for the bride and groom. A fresh wave of silent, intense scrutiny washed over her as every guest processed the groom's unprecedented attempt to offer the marital seat to a guest—a Duchess, no less.
She waved a dismissive hand, a faint, weary blush rising on her cheeks.
"Oh, my dear boy, please," she said with a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I have not come for such a thing. This is the sacred place of the married couple, not mine. Kindly keep it."
"Ah. Very well, Your Grace," he replied, relief battling with residual embarrassment on his face.
Matthews, sensing the stagnant, icy atmosphere, drew closer. He pulled her gently toward him—his movement a subtle shield. Leaning down, his breath brushed warm against her ear.
"Present the gift now," he urged, his voice low and firm. "Then, go give the bride her offering before she completes her final preparations."
Following his lead, she reached into the folds of her gown and retrieved a small, velvet-covered box. Addressing the groom, an imperious smile played on her lips.
"Young man... I mean, Groom. Step closer, if you please."
He obeyed instantly, approaching with a look of genuine apprehension. She extended her hand—her movements precise, elegant—and carefully affixed the decorative pin to the lapel of his suit jacket. Her smile deepened, losing some of its rigidity.
"My sincerest congratulations on your wedding," she offered warmly.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you," he stammered, his face flushed with awkward gratitude.
"And now, where is your bride?" she inquired.
"She is this way, Your Ladyship," he said, finally finding a purposeful task. He began to lead the way.
It was only then that Matthews released her arm. As his fingers slipped from her elbow, a sudden chill seemed to engulf his hand, as if she had unwittingly drawn all the warmth from him and carried it away. He shivered imperceptibly in the cool hall.
They reached a closed door, and the groom moved to open it. But she stopped him—her hand swiftly closing over the metal doorknob.
"Your service ends here," she announced, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, playful spark. "It is a terrible omen, is it not, to see the bride before her appointed time?"
A genuine, lighthearted laugh escaped the groom—the first sign of true relaxation he had shown all morning. He bowed his head low, murmured his thanks, and retreated down the corridor, finally freed from the Duchess's demanding presence.
Olivia stepped across the threshold, the silence of the main hall giving way to the close, intimate air of the bride's chamber. Inside, a scene of quiet, domestic chaos unfolded. An elderly woman—the mother, clearly—was hovering over a young girl, struggling to administer the delicate finishing touches of decoration.
It was immediately obvious that the task was far too intricate for her aged hands; the effort was loving but clumsy, a testament to a skill long past its prime.
"Hello?"
Olivia's voice—melodious yet authoritative—cut softly through the room.
The two women turned, startled.
"Oh... who are you, miss?" the mother asked, eyes widening as she took in Olivia's rich gown and the effortless aristocracy of her posture.
The mother quickly drew closer to her daughter, whispering urgently,
"Look at her. She must be a noble."
The bride swallowed hard, her apprehension giving way to awe.
"Madam, you are truly beautiful. Are you... are you one of the nobility?"
A genuine, warm smile—a rarity on Olivia's usually guarded face—broke through. She moved toward the young woman.
"Congratulations, my dear, on your marriage," Olivia said, her voice smooth as velvet. "And yes, I am a noble. It happens that my husband knows your groom, and so we have come simply to offer our felicitations."
The young woman began to rise, preparing for a deep curtsy out of respect—but Olivia reached out and gently laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Do not kneel," Olivia instructed, her tone firm but kind. "This day is entirely yours. You shall not kneel to anyone today."
"Thank you, Madam," the bride murmured, sinking back onto the stool, eyes wide with gratitude and disbelief.
"Do you perhaps require assistance with your preparations?" Olivia asked, with the composed efficiency of someone accustomed to managing entire estates.
The girl offered a nervous, self-deprecating laugh.
"It appears you noticed," she admitted, fidgeting with her hands. "My mother, bless her heart, is simply too elderly for this sort of work. I had relied on a friend, but her mother fell ill and she could not come. I have no one left to attend to my dressing, and so…"
Her voice trailed off into quiet despair.
Olivia picked up a forgotten cosmetic brush, surveying the haphazard array of powders and palettes.
"Truthfully, I am not proficient myself," she confessed, meeting the girl's gaze. "But I have observed my maid performing this ritual for countless hours. I shall attempt to adorn you."
Tears, sudden and overwhelming, welled in the bride's eyes. She grasped Olivia's hand, squeezing it in silent gratitude.
"Now, now," Olivia chided gently, "wipe those tears, Miss…"
"Kaya," the girl supplied, voice trembling slightly. "My name is Kaya."
"Yes. Wipe your tears, Kaya—and let us begin."
With an unexpected grace, Olivia—driven by memory and an innate sense of aesthetics—began her work. She moved with meticulous care, shaping the eyes, coloring the lips, transforming the girl's face step by step.
When the makeup was complete, she helped Kaya into the gown and draped the delicate veil over her hair.
Kaya gazed into the mirror, her reflection radiant with disbelief.
"I cannot believe this," she whispered, hand flying to her mouth. "I look like an entirely different person."
Olivia reached into her elegant bag and pulled out a stunning necklace. She fastened the intricate piece around Kaya's neck.
"What is this, Miss?" Kaya asked, touching the cool metal.
"First," Olivia corrected with a serene smile, "I am a Lady, not a Miss—I am married. Secondly, it is simply a wedding gift. Accept it without hesitation."
She then leaned back, examining her handiwork critically.
"Ah. There we are. It suits you perfectly. Yet... something feels missing."
She unfastened her own glittering earrings and placed them gently in Kaya's ears.
"Madam," Kaya protested, overwhelmed. "This is too much—I cannot accept these."
"I told you—you are the bride!" Olivia declared, her voice brooking no argument. "Refusing gifts from your elders is terribly bad luck. Accept what I offer, and not another word."
"Now, stand before me," she instructed, "so I can inspect."
Her eyes drifted to the girl's feet.
"Which shoes will you wear?"
"What?"
"You know what," Olivia said—and before Kaya could react, the Duchess gracefully slipped off her own high-heeled shoes. "What is a wedding day without a proper pair of heels?"
"But—"
"No buts. Wear them. You shall be utterly magnificent."
Tears flowed again—this time, tears of gratitude and disbelief. Kaya threw herself into Olivia's arms.
"Thank you, Madam," she wept. "You don't even know me, yet you came to my aid. You are the kindest woman on earth."
Olivia stifled a quiet laugh—a private, cynical sound at being called kindest. If only she knew the other side of me, Olivia thought, a flicker of irony crossing her eyes.
"Enough of this embracing," Olivia commanded gently. "You'll ruin the makeup. Go now, and wait for your groom with quiet dignity. You have barely half an hour before the ceremony begins."
[Part III – The Private Talk]
Kaya turned to her mother, who was watching with silent joy, tears of pride glistening in her eyes.
"Mother," Kaya said softly, "could you leave the Lady and me for a few moments? There's something personal I wish to discuss with her."
The elderly woman, sensing the delicacy of the request, nodded and quietly slipped out.
Kaya immediately took Olivia's hand, leading her toward a plush settee. Her voice dropped to a nervous whisper.
"I know this is terribly embarrassing to ask," she began, "but truly, no one has explained anything to me. Madam… could you offer me some advice? Tonight will be my first experience."
Olivia's eyes widened in surprise and awkwardness. She leaned closer, whispering back,
"You mean… you seek counsel regarding the wedding night?"
Kaya nodded, cheeks flaming scarlet.
Swallowing hard, Olivia began to speak in a low, earnest murmur. As she dispensed her frank advice, Kaya listened intently, her face deepening to a vibrant crimson—a testament to the bold, unprecedented conversation.
After a long, daring exchange, Olivia concluded with a gentle smile.
"You know what, my dear? Simply leave everything to your husband. He will know what to do. Just hope that his heart is… generous enough for you to enjoy it."
"His heart…" Kaya repeated, frowning in confusion. Then the meaning struck her. She coughed, blushing harder. "Ahem. You are quite right, my Lady."
Just then, the door swung open without a knock. Matthews entered, his eyes falling instantly on the two women deep in whispered conversation.
The moment Olivia saw his face, her own cheeks flushed hot—a deep crimson matching Kaya's.
Kaya jumped to her feet and bowed quickly.
"I salute you, My Lord Duke."
Olivia pulled her gently back down.
"Did I not tell you not to kneel today?"
"But Madam, he is the Duke—"
Matthews cut in, eyes fixed on his wife though his words addressed the bride.
"If the Duchess says you are not to kneel today, then you are not to kneel. Simply listen to her."
Kaya blinked in astonishment.
"You are a Duchess?" she gasped. "I'm so sorry, I—"
"Stop with the apologies," Olivia interrupted, waving away the tension. "There is no need. Focus solely on your wedding."
The groom entered right behind Matthews, his face bright with joy. He went straight to his radiant bride, and together they turned to make their grand entrance.
Matthews watched Olivia, his tone curious.
"Did you truly give the bride your earrings and your shoes? What is the cause of this sudden generosity?"
Olivia's smile softened into melancholy.
"It is merely this," she said quietly. "I wished that someone had been there for me on my own wedding day—to care for me, to tend to the details. I gave her only what I once wished to receive, but did not."
Matthews, sensing the weight of her words, cleared his throat and said briskly,
"Well then, let us make haste and depart."
"Why?" she asked, startled by his tone.
"The groom has requested that you and I both stand as witnesses for his marriage contract."
"What?" Olivia exclaimed, her surprise absolute.