I will be the perfect wife this time-Chapter 63: Shattered Pride and Severed Heads

Through the gilded corridors of the palace, the air grew brittle, shivering with an unnatural chill.

Olivia’s heels struck the marble in a rhythmic cadence, only to be swallowed by a silence so thick it felt like a noose tightening around their necks.

The heavy oak doors groaned shut behind them with a definitive thud. Then—

The sharp crack of a palm against flesh shattered the stillness.

The force of the blow snapped Olivia’s head to the side. A searing heat bloomed across her cheek, and her lower lip split under the pressure. The metallic tang of blood bloomed at the corner of her mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, she straightened her posture.

The smile that curved her lips was not born of pain, but of a sharp, jagged spite. "I expected nothing less from you, old woman," she remarked, her voice dripping with acid.

The Empress’s hand arched back for a second strike, but this time, Olivia caught her wrist mid-air. Her grip was iron.

"Careful now," Olivia drawled, a mocking glint in her eyes. "Shall I snap your hand right here, Your Majesty?"

She lingered on the title, dragging out the syllables until they sounded like an insult.

The Empress wrenched her arm back, her face contorted in a snarl. "You uncivilized creature! You dare come to your brother’s wedding, manipulate him into marrying a commoner of no standing, and then ignite a scandal that shames his name?"

"Have you no sense of decorum? No shred of breeding?"

Olivia wiped the blood from her lip with a languid sweep of her thumb, her eyes burning with a defiant fire.

"And whose fault is it, I wonder, that I never learned my manners? Tell me," she leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper, "when did I ever have a mother to raise me? Or has Your Majesty’s memory failed you?"

The Empress’s jaw tightened, her teeth grinding in visible fury.

"You ungrateful wretch... you are the walking image of your father. A stain upon this court. It is a biological impossibility for something like you to have come from me."

Olivia let out a sharp, bitter laugh that echoed against the high ceilings.

"Ha! And it’s equally impossible for a viper like you to be my mother. Don’t flatter yourself; wearing a crown doesn’t give you the right to spit on me."

Their gazes locked, a clash of steel and ice.

"You miserable harlot," the Empress hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "How dare you insult me? What more could I expect from the spawn of that vile man?"

"Do not think that carrying the title of Duchess gives you the right to raise your voice to me."

She looked Olivia up and down with visceral disgust. "I wish you had died the day you were born. It would have spared me the sight of you."

For a heartbeat, the words struck true, burning in Olivia’s chest like molten lead.

But then, her lips curled into a smile—cruel, dangerous, and utterly cold.

She tilted her chin up, her voice dropping to a haunting whisper.

"Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you opened your legs for my father while you still engaged with the Emperor"

"If you’ve forgotten your own ’illustrious’ history, Mother, it would be my absolute pleasure to remind you."

The Empress’s face drained of color, a flicker of raw terror washing over her features before it was consumed by a flash of incinerating rage.

A second slap—faster and more violent than the first—rebounded off Olivia’s cheek.

Her head snapped to the side, golden strands of hair spilling from her pins, yet she did not flinch.

With a chilling, cold elegance, she brushed the hair back from her face, her eyes burning like twin pyres of defiance.

"Oh?" Olivia’s voice was a jagged shard of silk. "Did my words cut too deep? If I am the harlot you claim I am, it stands to reason I am merely my mother’s daughter... wouldn’t you agree, Mother?"

She punctuated the remark with a slow, venomous smile.

The Empress recoiled, the hand she had used to strike Olivia now trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment, the regal mask shattered, leaving her stripped of her grandeur, exposed and hollow.

But before the weight of the silence could crush them, a sharp, dry cough echoed from the shadows of the corridor.

The Emperor stood there, his presence looming like a dark omen.

Olivia’s heart plummeted, a cold dread seizing her throat. How much did he hear?

"Your Grace," the Emperor’s voice was like grinding stone, "you are to leave this place at once and return to the gala."

He turned his icy gaze toward his wife. "As for you, Your Majesty, you will retire to your chambers and reflect upon your conduct."

Neither woman dared to utter a word of protest.

The Empress swept past in a whirlwind of silk and fury.

Olivia moved to follow, but the Emperor’s voice caught her like a physical blow.

"Duchess," he warned, his tone dangerously low, "mind your tongue with exquisite care. I am not a man known for his limitless patience."

Olivia bowed, her pulse racing with fear, and hurried out.

Waiting at the corner of the gallery was Matthias.

He had intended to respect her wish for privacy, though anxiety had been gnawing at him like a caged beast.

He watched in stunned silence as the Empress stormed past, her face a ghostly white.

Then came Olivia.

Her cheeks were flushed a violent crimson—not just from the heat of the argument, but from the brutal imprint of her mother’s hand.

A thin ribbon of blood stained the corner of her mouth.

She looked at once unbreakable and utterly shattered, like glass forged in a furnace.

"Olivia—" he began softly, reaching out a hand to comfort her.

She flinched back instantly, her voice trembling with a fierce, wounded pride. "Don’t touch me. We are leaving. Now."

"As you wish," he murmured, hesitating. "Let us head to the carriage, but—wait."

"What is it?"

She didn’t answered.

Without a word, Matthias draped his heavy coat over her shoulders.

Before she could protest, he swept her off her feet, lifting her into his arms.

"What is the meaning of this?" she hissed, startled.

"Lean into me. Let them think you fainted so they don’t see your face," he whispered against her ear, his voice steady.

"The marks on your face are too clear to hide. Endure this for a moment longer so we can leave without question."

"Ah... very well."

He carried her through the throngs of nobles, the crowd parting like a sea as whispers rippled through the hall.

From the balcony above, Elvira watched the spectacle, a strange, inscrutable smile playing on her lips.

Once inside the carriage, the tension finally broke.

Olivia leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her eyes fluttering shut as an overwhelming exhaustion pulled her toward sleep.

Matthias watched as her head jolted against the rattling pane; silently, he slipped his hand between the glass and her temple, cushioning the blow.

Olivia wasn’t entirely asleep.

She felt the warmth of his palm, the steadiness of his protection, but she found she had no strength left to question him.

She simply closed her eyes and let him hold the world at bay.

Olivia did not stir until the rhythmic chime of metal against metal echoed through the room—the clinical clink of instruments meeting.

She opened her eyes to a hazy blur, realizing she was in her bed.

She was still clad in her gown, though the restrictive corset had been loosened and cast aside.

Isabella approached her, a tuft of cotton and a pair of slender forceps in hand.

She sat beside the bed, cradling Olivia’s face with uncharacteristic tenderness.

"Stay still... I’m applying the ointment. If it stings, squeeze my hand."

At first, there was nothing.

But soon, the sharp, medicinal burn of the salve began to bite into her skin.

Instinctively, Olivia’s fingers sank into Isabella’s palm, her nails digging into the flesh.

Matthias, watching from the shadows, muttered through gritted teeth, "Tch... enough. Don’t complain—just endure it."

When the task was finished, he carefully placed two cold compresses around her swollen cheek, adjusting them with meticulous precision.

His dark, searching eyes remained anchored to her face. Finally, he broke the heavy silence with a low, steady voice:

"...Did she strike you again?"

The question hung suspended in the air. Silence was Olivia’s only retort, a quietude heavier than any confession.

He waited, then asked again, his tone softening, "Are you alright?"

"That is none of your concern," Olivia snapped, her voice raspy. "In fact, what are you even doing in my room?"

"He asked me to treat you," Isabella interjected, rolling her eyes. "Stop grumbling. Did the two of you have a falling out?"

"That, too, is none of your concern. If you’re finished, just leave. I can tend to myself."

"Fine, fine," Isabella sighed, rising to her feet. "I’m going. Don’t take your fury out on me."

Left alone, Olivia found herself submerged in a sea of unsettling thoughts.

The days following the wedding passed with a strange, agonizing monotony, as if time itself had slowed to a weary crawl within the palace’s stone walls.

The change in Olivia was visceral. She moved with a chilling stillness—the kind of silence that incites suspicion rather than peace.

Yet, her body began to betray her iron will; she grew paler and more fragile by the day, as if the weight of her secrets was eroding her from the within.

She and the Duke did not cross paths even once after the wedding.

They inhabited the same house like two stars in opposing heavens, orbiting in separate spheres to avoid a collision.

Isabella, ever observant, felt a gnawing curiosity.

She remembered how—not long ago—Matthias and Olivia had begun to resemble a true husband and wife, sharing fleeting moments that hinted at warmth.

Now, an impenetrable wall of ice had risen between them.

One afternoon, Olivia turned her piercing gaze toward Isabella. "Your eyes are boring holes into me... Speak the words that are choking you."

Isabella did not hesitate. "Since the wedding, you and the Duke have become strangers. You don’t eat together, you don’t speak—nothing. Has something happened between you?"

Olivia let out a breath heavy with exhaustion. "I don’t recall us being intimate enough for me to share such personal matters with you."

"Tiresome as ever," Isabella muttered under her breath.

"What was that? I didn’t hear you."

"Nothing."

"Apparently, he’s angry because he found out that my father and sister are behind his mother’s death. Happy now?"

Oh, hmmm, so...

At that moment, Kira entered with hurried steps, her arms straining under the weight of a wooden crate.

She bowed immediately, her breath coming in short gasps. "Forgive me, My Lady, but a package has arrived for you."

"Leave it there. I shall open it later."

"Your Grace..." Kira shifted anxiously, the heavy box trembling in her hands.

She lowered her eyes before speaking again. "Actually, the messenger insisted you open it immediately. He said it contains something... fresh."

A flash of suspicion crossed Olivia’s mind. She gestured sharply to the maid. "Leave us, Kira. Now."

The servant obeyed instantly, scurrying out of the room.

Isabella watched Olivia with growing apprehension as she approached the crate.

"Why did you dismiss her just to open a box? What is it you don’t want her to see?"

Olivia ignored her.

Her fingers moved with practiced speed, unravelling the ribbon and pulling the knot free. The lid creaked open with a reluctant groan.

The scent hit them first—metallic, raw, and unmistakable.

Isabella leaned forward, her eyes falling upon the contents of the crate.

A muffled scream rose to her lips, but before the sound could escape, Olivia’s hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

"Be silent," Olivia hissed into her ear, her voice a deadly whisper. "Do you wish to ruin us all?"

Isabella’s heart hammered against her ribs in sheer terror. She forced the words out from behind Olivia’s hand, her voice trembling:

"Th-there is so much blood... Is that—dear God, is that a man’s head?"