In the dim solitude of his study, Mathias sat hunched beneath the weight of scattered papers and heavier thoughts, the shadows of the night lingering like bruises beneath his eyes. Sleep had barely brushed past him. The events of the previous evening still haunted his mind—an argument with his wife, sharp enough to cut through the hours that followed.
The silence in the room pressed against him, urging him toward a decision he had postponed too long. At last, with a weary exhale, he stood. There was only one place he could go, one person who might offer clarity in the midst of this confusion. Olivia.
The sky outside remained veiled in the haze of early dawn, that fragile hour when the world still hesitates between night and morning. Yet he didn't care. He needed to see her—now. He crossed the corridor with quiet urgency, the cold marble beneath his feet echoing faintly with each step.
But as he neared Olivia's chamber, a blur of motion caught his eye—a maid darting across the hallway, clutching a first-aid kit to her chest with frantic fingers. She vanished into Olivia's room without a word.
Mathias stopped. A cold weight dropped into his stomach.
Something had happened.
And then—unbidden and sharp—came the echo of the head butler's words from last night, cryptic and uneasy. A warning cloaked in civility. Mathias hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob, heart pounding with a rhythm that mocked silence.
Could she have done something to Isabella?
The thought struck like ice water. Even though Isabella was nothing more than a fallen noble—a social ornament Leon had foolishly chosen for a wife—Mathias had never wanted to be placed between his brother and his own.
But there was no time for politics now.
He burst through the door.
"Olivia!"
The name ripped from his throat like a prayer or a curse.
And then—chaos.
His eyes met a scene so surreal it seemed to mock reality: Isabella, blood smeared across her pale arms, her silk nightgown stained and clinging. Beside her, Kiera struggled to hold the limp body of a young girl wrapped hastily in a damp bath towel. Together, they barely managed to support the child's weight. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood and something else—desperation.
Mathias moved forward without thought, his body responding before his mind could. The sharp crunch beneath his boots startled him. He looked down to see the glint of shattered glass spread like frost across the floor—the remains of vials, their labels half-torn, liquids soaking into the rug. He knew those bottles. He had seen them before. Sedatives. Poisons. Medicines that, in the wrong hands, became silent killers.
His hand trembled as he reached out, breath caught somewhere between fury and fear.
"Isabella," he said hoarsely, eyes locked on hers, "what's going on here?"
They froze—both Isabella and the maid—caught in a moment of pure disbelief as Mathias stormed into the room, breath ragged, face pale with urgency. Of all times, why now? Why this hour before dawn, when the world still held its secrets in shadows?
Isabella's lips parted, but no words came. Her voice stumbled on the edge of her tongue. "She... I... She was..."
But her sentence never found its end.
Mathias was not listening—not truly. His gaze was fixed on the figure in their arms.
Olivia.
That slender, fragile body wrapped in white linen. Her skin like porcelain kissed by moonlight—except where it was marred. Crimson, deep and vivid, crept from beneath the makeshift bandages, streaking her wrist with silent defiance. Her silver hair clung damp to her cheeks, and the blood—God, the blood—was still seeping.
His instincts overtook him.
With a suddenness that made both women recoil, Mathias surged forward and tore her from their arms, holding her against his chest as though his embrace alone might stitch her back together. In that heartbeat, all else dissolved. The fight with Isabella. The confusion. The judgment. The fear. None of it mattered anymore.
Only Olivia.
He laid her carefully upon the bed, hands trembling as he did. Her body burned with unnatural heat—each breath she took was shallow, labored, like a candle flickering in wind. Panic swelled in his throat.
"Fetch a doctor—now! Where is he?!" he roared.
Isabella, jolted from her stunned silence, turned swiftly to Kiera and signaled with urgency. The maid didn't wait for words. She fled the room.
Mathias knelt beside the bed and grasped Olivia's hand—so small, so fevered it felt like fire licked beneath her skin. He pressed it between his palms, trying to will away the heat, trying to ground her to the world.
"Bring me a towel," he snapped without looking.
"What?" Isabella blinked, uncomprehending.
"For God's sake, a towel!" he shouted, his voice raw, primal, laced with something that made Isabella flinch—a side of him she had never seen before.
She obeyed at once, her hands fumbling as she passed him the cloth. He took it and began gently, desperately, to wipe Olivia's skin, cooling her flushed limbs as sweat mingled with blood. His every motion was deliberate, his focus unshakable.
Then, without turning to her, he said coldly, "You should leave, my brother's wife."
The words cut with surgical precision. Not "Isabella." Not even "my sister-in-law."
"You're in no state to be seen like this," he added, eyes never straying from Olivia. "I will not have whispers spreading through this house. Change your clothes. Leon and the others will arrive by morning. Someone must greet them—properly."
For a moment, silence fell, heavy as judgment.
Then Isabella nodded. Without a word, she turned and walked out, the weight of scandal and shame draped over her like a second gown. She knew well enough: in noble families, reputation was everything. Appearances must be preserved, no matter the truth beneath them.
Behind her, Mathias continued his quiet war against the fire consuming Olivia—his fear cloaked beneath resolve, his fury held in trembling hands.
With the towel clutched in his hands, Mathias began to dry her trembling body, his touch careful, reverent—as though the heat radiating from her skin might scorch him, or worse, vanish altogether if handled too roughly. Her fevered limbs seemed carved from fire and porcelain. He moved with haste, yet his motions were laced with tenderness.
When he reached her hair, he paused. Crimson streaked the silver strands like spilled ink across snow. That sight—blood entwined with such unnatural beauty—squeezed his chest with an ache too deep to name. He could not bring himself to ask Isabella what had happened. He wasn't sure he wanted to know—not yet. Not while Olivia lay on the brink between silence and breath.
His gaze swept the room. Glass glinted across the floor, scattered like the remnants of a storm. It was easy enough to understand now. The broken vials, the scent of spilled medicine, the chaos—it was all too familiar. She had suffered a nervous collapse. Again.
He took her hand in both of his and pressed it gently, trying—futilely—to draw the fever away, to ground her to him. But something within him stirred, a flicker of that dormant power buried beneath his skin. He pulled back at once, afraid. If he let go of control, even for a moment, he might harm her. Might lose her entirely.
Then, at last, the door creaked open. The physician arrived in a hurried rush, skirts of his coat brushing past the glass shards as he carefully made his way inside.
Time passed in shallow breaths.
After some time, the physician concluded his examination and treatment. His hands, aglow with the soft light of healing magic, moved over her injuries with practiced care. When he stepped back, the wound that had once marred her skin had vanished completely, leaving behind only faint traces of what had been.
"My lord Duke," he said, his voice a blend of respect and caution, "the immediate danger has passed. Her wound is closed, and the bleeding has stopped thanks to the enchantment. But she is still weak. She's lost a great deal of blood, and the atmosphere of this room—it's thick with tension. She needs rest, both of body and mind. Most importantly, she must avoid using her arm for now. If she strains it, the magic could unravel, and the wound may reopen."
Matheus gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. He gestured silently to Kira, who stepped forward to escort the physician from the room.
As the door closed behind them, the Duke turned back to the woman lying motionless on the bed. Olivia. Her name echoed in his thoughts like a prayer and a curse. The ache in his chest tightened as he looked upon her pale face, the delicate curve of her brow damp with sweat. Guilt gnawed at him. He felt responsible for the torment she had endured.
Then, suddenly, her lips parted. Her voice came barely above a whisper, trembling and unconscious:
"Cold…"
The word pierced him.
Without hesitation, he pulled aside the covers and slid into the bed beside her. Gently, he gathered her in his arms, wrapping her against the warmth of his chest. He didn't think; he simply acted, as if by instinct. If his presence could shield her from even the chill in the air, he would offer it without question.
Just then, the door creaked open again.
Kira stepped in—and froze. Her eyes widened, a blush blooming across her cheeks as she took in the intimate scene.
"I—I'm terribly sorry, my lord! I didn't mean to intrude," she stammered, backing out quickly and pulling the door shut behind her.
Matheus said nothing. He didn't move. Neither did Olivia.
Hours passed.
The silence was soft, broken only by the rustle of the wind outside the window and the faint rhythm of breathing. Slowly, the morning light began to filter through the curtains, golden and gentle. Olivia stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep, and for a moment, she didn't move. There was warmth all around her—comforting, tender, and unfamiliar. She didn't quite understand it, so she closed her eyes again, surrendering to the rare peace for a few more moments.
Then, something shifted.
She became aware of pressure—her hands were touching something firm, and her wrists felt restricted, as though locked in place. A flicker of panic rose in her chest. Fear whispered at the edges of her mind.
Am I dead? Bound in some cold afterlife? Is this... hell?
The thought chilled her more than any winter wind. She dared not open her eyes, not yet. She was too afraid of what she might see.
But then, a voice—soft, awkward, and unmistakably real—broke the silence.
"Olivia… your hands. Please, be mindful of where you're touching."
Her eyes snapped open. She looked up, startled.
Matheus's face was inches from hers, a faint redness creeping across his cheeks. Confused, she glanced down—and gasped. Her hands were pressing against his lower abdomen, dangerously close to—
She recoiled instantly, pulling her hands away as if she'd touched fire. Her eyes met his again, wide with shock.
In all the time since they had married, through every awkward moment and strange encounter, this—this—was without a doubt the most embarrassing experience of her life.