The air in the grand entrance hall of the Palace was thick with frantic confusion. The household staff—fluttering in black-and-white livery—crowded around an enraged man whose fury drowned out every attempt at calming him.
A stout, middle-aged butler stepped forward, his voice trembling.
"Sir, I beg of you... lower your voice. You will wake Her Grace, the Duchess!"
"The Duchess? To hell with the Duchess! Bring that bitch to me now!" the man roared.
His shouting only intensified. Moments later, she descended.
Olivia, Duchess of Locron, swept down the marble staircase like a vision conjured by the chaos. Clad in a sheer silk robe, annoyance sharpened her aristocratic features. Her icy gaze flicked to her attendant.
"Kiera," she said softly—too softly. "Summon the Knights. It appears we must dispose of some inconvenient individuals this morning."
Kiera nodded once and vanished.
Olivia approached the furious man. He seemed in his forties, well-built, but consumed by rage. She examined him with slow, disdainful scrutiny.
"What gives you the audacity to create this vile noise in my palace?" she demanded. "Who are you? Has every madman in the realm mistaken Locron for an open asylum?"
The man stiffened under the force of her authority.
"Baron David, Your Grace."
Her eyebrow arched.
"Merely a Baron—and causing all this clamour?" she mocked. "Lord David, for what purpose do you scream in my halls?"
"I demand my wife and daughter! I know they are here! Return them to me immediately!"
"Your wife? And who might she be?"
"Laila Camille!" he shrieked. "Bring her out now! Or I will report to the Emperor that you are detaining my family!"
Olivia’s lips curved into a deadly smile.
"Is that a threat? Then do it. Who in hell cares?"
With a snarl, he lunged forward and seized her nightgown, yanking her close.
"I told you, you aristocratic whore—give me my wife and daughter!"
Gasps erupted. The staff froze. Yet Olivia gestured ever so slightly: Do not intervene.
Before another second passed, frantic footsteps sounded.
Laila appeared—breathless, terrified—rushing down the stairs.
"Please! Don’t hurt the Duchess! I’ll go with you! Just let her go!"
David’s eyes snapped to Laila. A new, feral rage consumed him. He shoved Olivia aside—hard—sending her stumbling into a marble pedestal. He charged toward Laila.
Before anyone could move—
CRACK.
His hand struck her face with brutal force, knocking her to the floor.
Laila cried out, clutching her burning cheek.
"You treacherous whore!" he bellowed. "You will pay for bearing a bastard son who is not mine!"
Shock swallowed the hall.
Olivia’s restraint shattered.
She strode forward, seized David’s shoulder, and spun him toward her. Her slap was sharp, precise, aristocratic.
"You vile dog," she hissed. "You dare raise your hand against a woman?"
Blood welled at David’s lip. He lunged, hands closing around her throat.
"You’ll pay for that, you arrogant bitch!"
The Duchess struggled, servants frozen by her earlier command not to interfere.
Meanwhile, Kiera had reached the barracks. She delivered Olivia’s orders. The Knights reacted reluctantly—until Kiera’s shriek forced urgency into their steps.
"Off we go to Her Grace’s latest drama," Sir Elian muttered darkly.
But the moment they entered the hall, humour evaporated.
The Duchess was being strangled.
They charged. Several Knights seized David, beating him into submission. He was dragged to the floor, snarling like a wild beast.
Sir Elian knelt beside Olivia as she coughed, rubbing her bruised neck.
"Our apologies for the delay, Your Grace," he said.
"It is acceptable," she rasped. "Now remove this filth. Throw him into a ditch for all I care."
The Knights dragged David away. He fought, spat, screamed:
"I will have my retribution! You and Laila will pay for this!"
The doors slammed. Silence settled.
Olivia turned to Laila—still on the floor, trembling. She extended a hand and helped her up.
Her voice was soft, but dangerously authoritative.
"Madam Laila," Olivia said, her gaze unrelenting, "you have a great deal to explain. And we shall begin with this—what is your true story?"
The heavy oak door of the guest salon had scarcely closed behind the retreating Knights—who hauled the still-cursing Baron David like a sack of unwanted refuse—when a profound silence descended. The atmosphere, charged moments earlier with violence, now settled into a fragile, expectant tension.
The two women occupied deep, velvet-upholstered chairs. A silver tray bearing a pot of Darjeeling tea, bone-china cups, and a plate of untouched biscuits rested between them on a low, polished table. They sipped the amber liquid in perfect, protracted silence. It was a duel of wills fought entirely within the confines of elegant manners.
Finally, Olivia, the Duchess, broke the stillness. She raised her cup in a gesture of cool finality. Her expression was now entirely composed, her ice-blue gaze fixed on her guest.
"Well, Miss Layla," she prompted, her voice measured and quiet, yet demanding attention. "Do you feel sufficiently composed now to offer me the tale I demanded?"
Layla set her cup down with a delicate clink that sounded enormous in the quiet room. Her eyes lifted, meeting Olivia’s stare without flinching. The fear that had animated her moments before was gone, replaced by a crystalline self-possession.
"Your Grace, allow me a preliminary query," Layla began, her tone utterly steady. "Do you genuinely believe that I am Duke Matthias’s sister? Or have you merely been humouring me, pretending to accept the identity I presented?"
A slow, almost wicked smile curled the corners of Olivia’s mouth. It was a dangerous expression, acknowledging a game well played.
"Hmm, it appears you are the one who has been maintaining the elaborate façade all along, Miss Layla. That weeping, desperate woman, pleading for my mercy... I knew those tears were not genuine, not truly, from the very moment my eyes fell upon you."
"Your Grace possesses a remarkably keen observation," Layla conceded with a quiet, knowing smile of her own. "But you still evade my question. Do you, or do you not, accept me as the Duke’s sister?"
Olivia’s focus tightened on the woman opposite her, her mind momentarily drifting backward. She recalled the servants’ brief mentions of a "sister" years ago, information she had dismissed as irrelevant noise. She hadn’t even known Matthias had a sister until that sister’s supposed death—a death ruled a suicide, yet thick with whispers of foul play. Olivia had not attended the funeral; Matthias had gone alone, tight-lipped and withdrawn. She had never seen the sister’s face, not even in a portrait. Until now.
"Your Grace, will you honour me with a direct answer?" Layla’s voice, sharp yet polite, cut through the Duchess’s reverie.
"In point of fact," Olivia responded after a calculated pause, "I believe you are his sister. You bear an undeniable, striking resemblance to my husband, so on the face of it, you must be speaking the truth."
"Many people share a passing resemblance to Matthias; that hardly serves as irrefutable proof," Layla countered, her voice cool and subtly challenging.
Olivia’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing her aristocratic features. "No one resembles Matthias."
Layla let out a low, amused laugh at the Duchess’s defensive reaction. "I certainly did not intend to insult your husband’s unique countenance, Your Grace. Pray, do not take offense."
"Never mind," Olivia replied with a careless shrug, a faint smile playing on her lips as she revealed the true clincher. "You share the same small mole directly beneath your left eye."
The confidence in Layla’s expression faltered for a barely perceptible instant. "Ah. A mole. You accepted my identity because of a small birthmark?"
"Whether I accepted you for a mole or for the colour of your shoelaces is my affair," Olivia stated dismissively, her gaze hardening. "Now, you will cease these preliminary games and answer my original demand: Why don’t you tell me your story?"
Layla hesitated, a veil of calculation briefly obscuring her gaze. Then, the mask of polite resistance dropped entirely, replaced by a weary resignation.
"Very well. If there is no longer any point in maintaining a pretense before you, Lady Olivia Locron, then I suppose I shall share my tale," she said, leaning back into the luxurious velvet of the chair, her arms crossing loosely over her chest. "Do you, perhaps, have a predilection for lengthy stories? Because the one I carry is quite long."
"Please," Olivia urged, her earlier annoyance now completely overshadowed by consuming curiosity. "I am entirely at your disposal."