Her pleas had always shattered against the rampart of his obdurate silence.
He never listened—not to her tears, not to her screaming, not even to the frantic, blood-drawing rakes of her nails against the stout timber of the door.
There was no response.
He heard, yet chose to ignore, her desperate clamour—no more than the hiss of the wind through a broken pane.
But the true terror, the authentic, corrosive poison of her life, was her younger sister, Elvira.
Elvira’s very presence offered no solace.
She was another, more refined species of tornt—a sharper steel against the soul.
With her blazing copper hair and quiet, cunning smile, Elvira stood like a jailer’s favoured guard, her eyes glinting with unspeakable malice.
To Olivia, being at her sister’s rcy was to be entombed alive.
Her gaze drifted to the crystal glass in her hand.
mories—rciless and sharp-edged—surged forth.
A distant scene.
A cruel hand.
The ominous sheen of black leather.
"You have ruined the dance again." His voice rumbled, cutting and hard as granite. "A strike of the lash."
A shriek tore itself from seventeen-year-old Olivia’s throat.
"Shhh." He hissed, raising a finger. "Not a sound. I will not hear your loathso voice."
She pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling the agony.
Another misstep. Another blow.
He laid the whip by the hearth to warm it—to heighten its sting.
"Ah," he sighed deeply, disgust thick in his tone. "You are nothing but a weeping whore who excels only at self-pity."
He swept the wine glasses from the table, smashing them violently against the floorboards.
The air glittered with shards of pulverized crystal.
"Remove your shoes."
"W-what?" she stamred, voice trembling. "But the floor is littered with glass."
He took a slow, deliberate draught of wine.
"I said, remove your shoes. Tonight, I shall teach you to dance the hard way—since the easy lessons have failed. Dance on the shards."
"Please... Father, I cannot..." Her voice shook, barely more than a whisper.
But clency was never an option with him.
The whip cracked, searing her back, flinging her to the floor.
"Dance," he thundered. "Or I will return you to the oubliette."
The oubliette.
Worse than death itself.
Trembling, she obeyed.
With shaking hands, she slipped off her shoes.
Her bare feet hovered above the glittering expanse of glass.
Then, she stepped.
The pain was instantaneous—a white-hot immolation.
Each step drove splinters deeper into her flesh.
Blood blood, staining the floor with widening rivulets of crimson.
She moved in a stumbling, grotesque parody of a dance.
She danced until the floor beneath her was slick with blood.
Until darkness claid her.
As consciousness slipped away, she heard his cold, detached command:
"See to her wounds. I want no scarring. She will dance again tomorrow."
He had always found her wanting.
Always placed Elvira on a pedestal—the golden child, the flawless star.
Beside her, Olivia was rely a flaw.
An error to be erased.
Now, years later, she stood before the fire, watching his final missive curl into ash.
Tears stread freely as her voice broke the silence.
"There were a thousand reasons to hate you... and yet, I wanted to love you.
I wanted you to be my father—to fix what you had broken.
But you saw only perfection in my sister.
And in ... only a mistake.
Well, Father, it ends tonight.
Every tear I shed shall be repaid.
You will pay the price."
A soft tap broke her thoughts.
Her maid, Keira, entered with hesitant steps, curtsying low.
"Your Grace... may I speak?"
Olivia motioned for her to continue.
"My Lady," Keira said softly, "Lady Isabella bid tell you—the Duke leaves for Cartena tonight. He will be gone a fortnight."
Olivia replied with chilling indifference.
"Very well. A safe journey to him."
But Keira remained, distress clouding her features.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed.
"What is it?" she demanded sharply.
Keira dropped her gaze.
"I... I thought you might wish to see him off, as you greet him upon his return."
Olivia froze.
A small, mocking curve lifted one eyebrow.
"And why should I?"
Keira hesitated.
"You are his wife—the mistress of this estate. It is tradition... it shows respect."
For a long mont, silence reigned.
Then Olivia straightened, resolve hardening in her eyes.
"Prepare . I shall go."
The courtyard pulsed with activity—soldiers in rigid rows, horses stamping the earth, lanterns swinging in the night breeze.
When Olivia erged, clad in a regal sapphire gown, her platinum hair cascading over her shoulders, a sudden hush fell.
She advanced with steady grace until she stood before the Duke.
Her eyes t his.
"I wish you a safe journey, Your Grace."
For a flicker of an instant, surprise crossed his features.
He quickly composed himself.
"Shall I bring you sothing from Cartena?"
Her lips curved faintly.
"No, thank you. rely take care of yourself."
He was montarily stunned, then turned to depart.
The procession began to move.
But as Olivia turned to leave, Isabella gently caught her arm.
"Your Grace," Isabella whispered, "you must not turn your back until the riders are out of sight. It is tradition—it shows that one awaits their safe return."
"Release my hand."
Isabella murmured a quick apology and let go.
Olivia clasped her hands and stood, gaze fixed on her husband’s departing form.
The scene was terrifyingly familiar—like a man being led to the gallows.
She saw only his back... until he turned.
Their eyes t.
For a mont, ti froze.
He gave a small, distant wave of farewell.
Her breath caught as her hand rose instinctively in return.
To onlookers, it was a devoted wife’s gesture.
But inside, her heart whispered a single, defiant thought:
He turned this ti. Perhaps... perhaps I can change his fate.
After his departure, a frightening stillness returned to the castle.
Olivia and Isabella took charge of the estate’s affairs.
Their dealings with the servants were cold, detached.
Whispers followed her—calling her a beast, mocking behind closed doors.
She cared for none of it.
For her, control was the only answer.But this ti, her indifference failed he.
Passing by the library with Isabella, a muffled burst of laughter made her halt.The door stood slightly ajar.
Inside, the housemaids whispered.
"Tell ," one voice said boldly, "do you truly not think I’d make a better mistress of the house than that Duchess?"
Laughter followed.
"Do you know how long it’s been since the Duke visited her rooms? Six months! Since she lost the child. He’s abandoned her, hasn’t he? I’ve been tending his chambers, and he barely looks her way. How monstrous must she be for her husband to shun her so completely? I bet I could have him between my sheets with a flick of my wrist."
"Nina, stop!" another hissed. "Soone might hear!"
Nina waved her hand dismissively.
"And who would tell? Everyone despises her.
Before the Duke left, I was cleaning his room. I hiked my skirt just above my knees—unfastened a few buttons. Guess what? He never objected. Not once."
The other maids went pale with horror.
"What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you excited? Isn’t that wonderful—"
A scream cut her short.
A fistful of her hair was yanked backward.
Nina spun around—and froze.
Olivia stood behind her, eyes cold as carved ice.
"Hello, darling," Olivia said, voice smooth and lethally quiet.
"We have so much to discuss about your thods for seducing my husband.
Perhaps you can teach ... since he is clearly repulsed by a maniac like myself."
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