Chapter 132
On the Goddess’s Bridge
“Thank you for coming.”
Irene released Olivia from a light hug and spoke with the smile of a new bride, radiating pure charm.
“It’s so good to see you again, Duchess.”
“It has been a while, Your Highness.”
Olivia bowed politely toward Princess Catherine.
Catherine welcomed her cousin’s wife once more with an unpretentious smile.
In all her three years of marriage, Olivia had never once visited the palace in a private capacity.
Catherine had wanted to befriend her without prejudice, but Olivia always seemed uncomfortable around her.
Perhaps that was why it felt strange—and a little disappointing—that Olivia had grown close with Irene.
The three of them settled intimately around the tea table.
In the garden room, where the warm autumn sunlight poured in, the fragrance of tea mingled with the sweet scent of flowers.
After exchanging pleasantries, the conversation naturally drifted toward Irene’s upcoming wedding dress.
Queen Katrina herself had commissioned her personal designer to create the bride’s gown—a wedding gift.
But Irene wanted a Kranz-style dress.
“What kind of dress did you wear, Olivia?”
Irene asked curiously.
Olivia, caught off guard, searched the memories that belonged to the body’s former self.
The dress had been dreadful—grotesquely puffed sleeves like a lamb’s legs, and a wilted, drooping skirt that spread awkwardly.
It was the work of Diane Brooke, who had been tasked with overseeing the duties of the duchess-to-be, Olivia Blanchet.
“It wasn’t a very impressive dress,” Olivia answered with a bitter smile.
A wedding dress.
Even during all the years of loving her senior in secret, she had never dared dream of it. To her, it was like a flower blooming high up on an unreachable cliff.
She gazed absentmindedly at the designs Irene showed her.
Dresses she would never again have reason to wear—each elegant, each beautiful.
“I like this silhouette the best. What do you think?”
Catherine pointed to a sketch: a design that hugged the figure like a mermaid, flowing down smoothly from the waist.
Olivia’s eyes followed Irene’s to the central sketch. Befitting the star of Rondos society, the princess’s choice was strikingly alluring.
A sudden, dangerous thought slipped in—I want to wear it too. Startled by her own feelings, Olivia quickly shook her head.
“What do you think, Olivia?”
“I think it would suit you very well, Your Highness,” she replied with a smile.
After much deliberation, Irene finally chose a bustle-style gown with a long lace train.
Princess Catherine laughed, saying it would take at least a dozen maids just to carry the train on the wedding day.
From there, the topic moved on—to tiaras, jewelry, shoes, and bouquets.
Irene even asked about the jewelry Olivia had worn.
Olivia deflected with vague answers. The truth was, in Olivia Blanchet’s memory, her wedding day had been filled only with Johan’s face.
A pang of unbearable envy struck her chest.
Her heart felt tight.
Though she was relieved no one noticed, a reckless part of her wanted someone to sense the change within her.
A longing grew—to stand before that man not as Olivia, but fully as Han Jian.
Wrapping her cold fingers around the teacup, Olivia silently chastised herself.
Don’t be greedy.
When Johan, having just met the Queen and briefly the Crown Prince, came to see her, the sunlight was already turning golden with dusk.
The carriage rolled through the city of Leiden as the sun went down.
Sitting motionless, Olivia seemed like part of the scenery along the Daphne River, glowing in shades of rose.
Johan, his long legs crossed, rested an arm against the window frame, fingers pressing his temple as he studied his wife.
As always in such moments, unpleasant memories stirred, and he broke the silence.
“Did something happen?”
Only then did Olivia slowly turn her head.
In the sunset painting Leiden red, Johan’s platinum hair gleamed bronze.
Olivia thought of the wedding dress still vivid in her mind.
She imagined herself in a dazzling white gown, standing beside a man in a black tuxedo as dark as night.
“I asked you something, Olivia.”
The silence grew, gnawing at Johan’s patience.
“…Nothing. I was just thinking how beautiful the sunset is.”
Don’t want more. She scolded herself and turned back to the window.
It wasn’t a lie—the twilight city truly was dreamlike.
Johan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her.
Catherine or Princess Irene would never have said anything cruel—but their maids? That was another matter.
A hidden barb, an invisible wound—it was easy enough. Johan did not want Olivia hurt.
“If you don’t feel like it, you don’t need to attend social gatherings.”
Olivia blinked at the sudden remark.
“Even if it’s Princess Irene’s invitation—you can refuse.”
“I’m not going because I’m forced to. Both princesses were kind to me. They even invited me to a volunteer gathering sponsored by the royal family this weekend.”
There had likely been no ill intent. Amblyn’s cousin, proudly on the tea party’s guest list, had simply lacked tact.
But Johan didn’t want Olivia exposed so defenselessly.
“Just ignore it.”
“I can handle it. I won’t do anything that would disgrace your name, so don’t worry too much.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Recently, letters had dwindled. No—only Irene’s letters still came.
Olivia knew Johan was filtering them. He’d been declining all social invitations, for her sake.
She wasn’t grateful. She was hurt.
“I just don’t want you to be hurt.”
“I know.”
“But still…”
The sight of the fading sun suddenly choked her up.
“I want to properly fulfill my role as your wife.”
“….”
Johan met her determined, shining blue eyes.
He remembered the night of a ball, when he had found his wife weeping alone in a dark corner.
Behind the massive pillar where she hid, he had overheard unspeakable slander and mockery.
His blood had gone cold in an instant.
“A wife’s duty, Olivia, is fulfilled well enough—in bed.”
He brushed aside her turmoil as if it were trivial.
Her eyes flared, then turned away toward the window.
Her small hand twisted the burgundy lace of her dress hem.
Even if he grew angry, she couldn’t stop.
Her grandmother ruled Rondos society in the Queen’s absence. There was no way she would let things rest.
And with the Blanchet family’s scheming, Amblyn’s cousin suddenly appearing, and Chase Andrew MacLaine lurking too—
The only way Johan could protect Olivia was by refusing to throw her to the predators.
By now the carriage had reached the Goddess’s Bridge over the Daphne River.
Famous as a lovers’ sanctuary, a long line stretched before the beautiful statue even on a weekday. Johan’s gaze darkened.
“There’s something I want to do.”
“Say it.”
“…A kiss. I want to kiss you.”
Her plea echoed in the twilight.
But as the carriage passed the statue of Arke, goddess of love, Johan let the moment slip by once again.
Now was the worst possible time—a kiss in this chill would only freeze.
Leaving the crowded bridge behind, the carriage sped faster, heading toward Great Hill.
Toward the stronghold where Olivia could be safest.
How long would the duke and duchess’s cold war last? Who would win?
The servants always made bets whenever they gathered in the break room.
More wagers were placed on the duchess’s side.
Anne never gossiped, but Olivia was not so dull as to miss the atmosphere flowing through the estate.
It was her form of protest. She wanted to stand beside him not only in bed, but also in public.
Though they hadn’t yet spent their wedding night together, and could hardly be called a true couple.
With a long sigh, Olivia dipped her pen in ink. Princess Catherine’s volunteer event was only three days away.
“One of the attendees is Florin. She has no reason to be friendly toward you.”
Other noblewomen with favors owed to Johan’s family would bend easily—but Florin, her cousin, was different.
Obsessed with currying favor from Grandmother Margaret, there was no telling what she might do to Olivia.
Still, she couldn’t just live like a ghost at Great Hill, cloistered away forever.
Just as Olivia firmed her resolve and began writing the first line, a knock came. It was the butler and head maid.
“Madam, the master requests you.”
“Him?”
“The painter has arrived.”
“Ah, it’s already that time.”
Hurriedly tidying her desk, Olivia rose.
With the head maid and Anne helping adjust her attire, she followed the butler down the west wing’s first-floor corridor.
As they neared the parlor, a clear, feminine laugh rang out.
“A female painter?”
“Yes, madam.”
At the door, the lively laughter ceased.
The butler knocked politely. Johan’s voice called them in. The butler opened the door carefully and stepped aside.
The first thing she saw was Johan. Bathed in the afternoon sunlight streaming behind him, he rose to his feet.
“Come here, Olivia.”
