"A second chance," she whispered, her voice a fragile thing against the stillness of the chamber, as she watched her reflection shimmer in the looking-glass.
Memories—a cruel, relentless tide—crashed over her, bringing forth the wreckage of all her past mistakes.
It had been a long, dark night indeed.
The next morning, she emerged from her rooms. A line of servants instantly snapped to attention, their unified greeting a nervous murmur:
"Good morning, Your Grace."
She swept past them without a word—a silent, determined force moving straight towards the dining hall. Taking her accustomed place at the great table, her eyes rose to meet Isabella, Leon’s wife, who sat with quiet grace at the far end.
Isabella’s simple green gown enhanced the beauty of her soft brown hair and arresting green eyes. She ate with a composed elegance, a stark contrast to the palpable tension that usually hung over the family breakfast.
The servants’ eyes spoke what their lips dared not utter: they adored her, secretly wishing she were the Duchess instead of Olivia.
Isabella’s gaze caught Olivia’s. Startled, she rose quickly, curtsying in immediate apology.
"My apologies, Your Grace. I did not realize you were already here. Good morning."
Olivia merely fixed her with a long, unblinking stare before replying:
"You may sit."
It was an act of uncommon civility. In ordinary times, Olivia would have spewed venomous insults, reminding Isabella of her inferior position. Today, she had simply requested she be seated.
The servants began to whisper amongst themselves—a quiet buzz of shocked speculation. Olivia’s sharp glance silenced them. Then, suddenly, she slammed her hand down on the table, rising abruptly.
"It seems some of you do not know your place. Must I educate you, you ill-bred fools? Whispering about me in my presence?"
Her anger flared—a brief, hot flash that scattered the terrified staff. Isabella made a move to leave, but Olivia’s gesture was firm.
"You, sit. I was not referring to you, Lady Isabella. You are no servant."
Obediently, Isabella returned to her seat. Olivia played with her food, the silver clinking faintly against the china, before she spoke again.
"Lady Isabella, have you been managing the estate’s affairs in my absence?"
"Yes, Your Grace. If there is something you wish to change—" Isabella hesitated, then added cautiously, "I apologize, but I do not believe it is possible to increase your wardrobe budget any further. It already constitutes half of the estate’s funds."
A jolt of shock traversed Olivia’s face. She had been lavish, yes—but to consume half the estate’s budget? It was a chilling revelation.
"I was not referring to that," Olivia said, concealing her astonishment. "I merely wished to know who was attending to my duties."
"I have been, Your Grace," Isabella answered, "but the Duke approves all my decisions."
"Very well. From this day forward, I shall manage the estate myself."
Isabella’s spoon clattered onto her plate, astonishment writ large across her features.
"Of course, Your Grace. They are your rightful duties."
"Finish your meal," Olivia commanded. "Take me to the study when you are done."
The Duchess at Her Desk
In the study, Olivia found a mountain of documents awaiting her attention. Although she had always abhorred paperwork, she was a noblewoman, trained in the art of estate management.
She donned her spectacles, picked up a pen, and began to review the papers—budgets, inventories, reports—all with methodical precision. Isabella watched her with guarded eyes, suspicion etched into every glance.
"If you are going to stare, at least sit," Olivia said, not lifting her head.
"I am not staring, Your Grace. I am ensuring all is well."
Olivia smiled faintly. "As if I would believe that. Do not worry; I will not kill you. You are my sister-in-law, after all."
Silence reigned between them, but Olivia felt the weight of Isabella’s doubt. She ignored it, focusing instead on the work before her. Hours passed—the sun dipped into gold and crimson—until finally, Olivia spoke.
"There are certain papers that require my seal. How were these handled?"
"Your Grace, I would send them to the Duke. He would review and sign them."
Her eyes widened. Matthias had quietly assumed her responsibilities for years without complaint, never once chastising her negligence. A sense of guilt pierced her heart like a drawn sword.
"Isabella, instruct the head chef to prepare a feast for the knights returning from the border."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. See to it."
Without another word, Olivia left the study. Alone in her chamber, she lay upon her bed, her thoughts a whirlwind. Tomorrow, she would face Matthias. How could she, after everything? The weight of her regret was unbearable—but for the first time, it came with a glimmer of resolve.
The Unseen Change
The following morning, the castle bustled with activity as the Duchess’s orders for a grand feast were executed. Servants hurried through the corridors while Olivia sat quietly in the study, absorbed in her work beside Isabella.
The air between them was thick with silence until Olivia broke it with a simple question.
"What time do the knights arrive?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a trace of tension.
"I believe they will arrive at dusk, Your Grace," Isabella replied.
"Ah, very well."
And the silence returned, both lost in their thoughts. Their relationship was no more than a superficial connection—a mere dynamic between manager and subordinate. There was nothing more.
"Let us conclude the day’s work," Olivia said, a dismissive note in her tone. "I have thinking to do. You may leave."
Isabella left without a word, as she always did. Olivia, now alone, found herself drowning in contemplation. Why had Isabella never questioned her actions in their previous life? Even then, she had always remained silent, always following Olivia’s decisions without protest.
But the question remained unanswered in her mind, and soon her thoughts turned to her husband. The thought of seeing him again, after all that had transpired, was a psychological blow. She had never loved him—not truly—but facing the man she had sentenced to death only yesterday was an indignity she was not prepared for.
She paced her study restlessly, her anxiety mounting with every passing moment. As the hour grew late, she moved towards the window, arms tightly folded, her eyes scanning the horizon. She had to see them—her knights, returning from the front.
And there he was: Matthias, at the head of the procession, his posture unwavering, his presence commanding. The sight of him—strong and resolute—was enough to make the hearts of every woman watching flutter.
Olivia’s gaze lingered on him, her emotions a tangled mixture of sorrow, pity, and remorse. He may not have been the perfect husband, but he had stood by her until the end, despite her indifference.
As they drew near the gates, Olivia knew what she must do. It was the duty of the Lady of the Castle to receive the returning knights. Of course, she had never done so before—but today was different.
She strode towards the door, only to find Isabella standing there waiting.
"Isabella!" Olivia called out.
"Yes, Your Grace?" Isabella turned, a slight surprise flickering in her eyes.
"What are you doing here?" Olivia demanded, her tone laced with impatience.
"I assumed you would not come," Isabella replied respectfully, "so I planned to receive the knights on your behalf, as I always do, Your Grace."
Olivia stared at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before dismissing her with a wave.
"Then remain."
The gates opened, and the knights rode in—their arrival met with the cheers of the castle’s eager staff. But a strange stillness fell over the crowd when they glimpsed Olivia standing at the gate. For a moment, there was only stunned silence, followed by whispers that quickly spread among the servants.
"Is that truly her?"
"It cannot be! The Duchess never comes down to greet us."
No one could comprehend what was happening. Matthias turned to his brother, Leon, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"Leon, is that the ghost of my wife standing there? Impossible. Olivia never descends to greet us."
Leon, equally stunned, leaned closer.
"You say it is impossible? I am more shocked that the phantom is standing so close to my wife. What in the hell is happening here?"