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 Matthias's, fearing what might be revealed on her face.
"Welcome, Leon," Matthias 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."
Matthias'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 Matthias 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."
Matthias's expression softened slightly, but his words remained firm.
"Good. Let us remember that next time."
Meanwhile, Olivia sat alone in her room, breathing shallow gasps. She reached for a glass of water, but it slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor.
She crumpled onto the cold stone floor, pulling her knees to her chest, her mind reeling with the faces of those she had betrayed in her past life—faces that now haunted her like ghosts. The guilt gnawed at her, and the weight of it all seemed unbearable.
She looked at her hand, noticing blood staining it from a shard of glass, and for a moment, she believed it to be the blood of those she had caused to perish. At that moment, Kira, her maid, rushed into the room, hurrying to her side.
"My Lady, your hand is bleeding. We must attend to it immediately."
Olivia did not respond, lost in her thoughts as Kira busied herself with cleaning the wound and applying a bandage, her words a fog of meaningless chatter.
"There, I'm done. You should have called me sooner, My Lady," Kira said softly, her hands wiping away the last traces of blood.
"Leave," Olivia replied quietly, her voice hollow.
Kira hesitated, but nodded. "As you wish, My Lady." She exited the room without another word.
Night fell, and the knights gathered in the great hall with the Duke and his aide. It was customary for the commander to dine with his men after returning from the front, but they were met with an unexpected sight—a feast such as they had never seen before.
The table was laden with an array of dishes, meats, and delicacies, everything a weary traveler could dream of. Yet, the knights were not hungry. They stood silently, perplexed by the lavish spread before them.
The Duke looked at his aide with a puzzled expression. "Leon, did you inform my sister-in-law to prepare the feast?"
"What?!" Leon replied, astonished.
"Are you saying you didn't?" the Duke retorted sharply, his voice filled with disbelief. "Head Butler, step forward."
The Head Butler approached, bowing. "Yes, my Lord."
"Who gave the order to prepare this feast?" the Duke asked, his gaze fixed. "To my knowledge, you always prepare simple meals, even when the knights return from battle."
The servant hesitated before answering. "My Lord, it was Lady Isabella who ordered it, and she said it was by the Duchess's command."
The Duke's voice rose in amazement. "What?!"
A heavy silence fell over the room. No one had touched the food yet, unsure what to do. If Isabella had done it without Olivia's approval, it was a direct challenge to the authority of both the Duke and the Duchess.
"Summon Lady Isabella," the Duke commanded firmly.
Moments later, Isabella stood before him. The Duke's voice was tinged with suspicion. "Sister-in-law, I must ask—did Olivia truly request this feast?"
Isabella remained unfazed. "Yes, Your Grace," she answered calmly. "Everything was done according to the Duchess's orders. If you doubt my word, you may ask her yourself."
The Duke nodded, but his suspicion lingered. "Very well, I did not mean to question you."
Once Isabella confirmed the source, no one dared to touch the food, fearing it was a trap. Matthias observed the scene carefully, and without a word, he took his seat at the head of the table. He began to eat from his plate.
A chorus of voices arose: "Your Grace!"
Matthias raised his hand, signaling silence. He continued eating until he had finished his meal. "It is not poisoned," he said coolly. "Eat."
The others began to eat tentatively. Meanwhile, the Duke, consumed by thoughts of his wife's strange behavior, stood up and left the room in frustration.
A week had passed since the Duke's return, yet the atmosphere remained cold. Olivia was engrossed in her routine alongside Isabella, as if attempting to forget his existence altogether.
The Duke received precise reports of her every move—not out of concern, but as part of the control he was accustomed to. Their relationship had long ceased to resemble a marriage. They ate separately, slept in different rooms, and barely exchanged words.
But the monotony was broken by an unexpected message with the distinct seal of the Imperial Family. Matthias broke the seal and read:
"Matthias, you rogue, why didn't you tell me you were back? Is this how friends treat each other? I will be visiting this evening, so prepare yourself!"
A rare smile crept onto his lips. He turned to the Head Butler: "Prepare a feast worthy of His Highness, the Crown Prince. He will be joining us tonight."
As the butler hastened away, the Duke realized he had not informed Olivia. He resolved to deliver the news himself.
In her private chambers, Olivia was relaxed in her warm bath. In one hand, she held a glass of red wine, savoring its aroma. Her maid, Kira, was busy arranging evening wear on the bed until a knock interrupted them.
"Who is it?" the maid called out.
"It is I."
She recognized the voice instantly and hurried to the door. "Your Grace, my Lady is currently bathing," she informed him respectfully.
"Leave us. I need to speak with her," Matthias said curtly.
Kira left without question. Matthias sat on the sofa by the fireplace and waited. Eventually, Olivia emerged from the bath.
She looked almost ethereal, wearing a loosely tied bath-robe that revealed her shoulder. Her wet hair clung to her skin. Without looking up, she slipped into a chair and called out:
"Kira, dry my hair and pour me another glass of wine."
But Kira was not there. Matthias stood up, picked up a towel, and approached her from behind. Gently, he began to dry her hair.
Olivia remained rigid, assuming it was her maid. "Kira, where is the wine I asked for?"
"I am not Kira," he replied.