I will be the perfect wife this time

Chapter 197: The Wolf at the Door

Olivia stood there, entirely motionless, a dark silhouette against the bleak morning sky until the very last scoop of earth was flattened over the pit.

Beside her, Leon worked in absolute silence. He asked no questions, demanded no explanations for the horrific revelation or the psychotic madness that had just unfolded before them. He simply moved, his heavy shovels smoothing out the cold, unyielding dirt until the grave looked like nothing more than forgotten earth.

He finally stopped, leaning heavily against the wooden handle as his ragged breath turned into white mist in the freezing air.

"So..." Leon murmured, his sharp gaze shifting from the ground to her. "Is there anything else, Olivia?"

"No," Olivia whispered, her eyes fixed on the fresh soil. "Just... I just need a moment."

For several agonizing minutes, she stared down at the silent tomb. The screaming had stopped. The clawing had stopped. There was no longer any sound to be heard from the depths of the earth, and as the quiet settled in, the shock on Olivia’s face slowly calcified into a cold, unbreakable numbness.

Leon watched her carefully, his brows furrowing. "Is something wrong?"

"It’s just..." Olivia began, her voice dropping into a hollow, empty whisper. "Even this revenge... it feels entirely lukewarm. It feels as though it isn’t enough."

Leon let out a long, heavy sigh, the tension in his shoulders dropping as he looked at the grave, then back at her trembling, cloaked figure.

"And it will never be enough, Olivia," Leon replied, his voice unexpectedly gentle, stripped of all his usual defensive armor. "Revenge doesn’t cure the soul. It is only meant to shift a fraction of the suffocating weight off your chest... but it will never truly wash the pain away."

"Yes, you’re right," Olivia murmured, pulling her thick cloak tighter around her frozen frame. "Let’s leave."

"As you command, Your Grace," Leon replied, giving the smoothed-out dirt a final, sweeping glance before he carefully set the shovel aside.

They turned their backs on the fresh grave, their boots crunching softly against the frosted grass as they began their slow ascent back toward the dark, towering silhouettes of Locron Castle. But after a few paces, Olivia stopped.

Driven by an irresistible, cold impulse, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, staring back at the patch of forgotten earth that now held her greatest tormentor. A chilling, unreadable smile touched her lips.

"We will meet again, Elvira," Olivia whispered into the freezing wind, her voice a lethal promise meant for the soil alone. "Just wait for me."

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Three long, exhausting days had dragged by since that fateful dawn, and each passing hour felt like a crushing physical weight on Olivia’s shoulders. She found herself trapped in a relentless, maddening battle.

Her days were entirely consumed by a mountain of ducal paperwork that never seemed to end, and her nights were spent methodically purging the remaining traitors hidden within the corners of the duchy.

Amidst the chaos, her health had plummeted to rock bottom. The heavy toll of her pregnancy combined with the sheer psychological trauma of Elvira’s final actions left her weak, pale, and constantly dizzy. With the entire burden of Locron resting solely on her and Leon, there was no room for rest.

Even Isabella was no longer capable of offering much assistance; her own pregnancy had advanced significantly, leaving her fragile and easily fatigued.

"Olivia, put those papers down," Isabella said, her voice laced with deep, maternal worry as she stared at Olivia’s hollow face and the profound, haunting sadness etched into her features. "You don’t look well at all. You look like a ghost."

"I don’t have time to look well, Isabella," Olivia murmured, refusing to lift her eyes from the documents as her cold, trembling fingers tightened around her quill.

"I know what you’re doing," Isabella stepped closer, her expression softening with painful sympathy as she placed a hand on the edge of the desk.

"I know you are burying yourself beneath these endless papers just to forget... to block out whatever happened out there. But truly, this isn’t the way. You are killing yourself."

"Leave me alone, Isabella," Olivia snapped, her voice carrying a sharp, dangerous irritation that she could no longer suppress. "I said, drop it."

Isabella opened her mouth to argue, but seeing the dark, lethal storm brewing in Olivia’s cold eyes, she softly sighed. Bowing her head in defeat, she quietly stepped out of the office, closing the doors behind her.

Finally, a heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Olivia leaned back in her leather chair, rubbing her aching temples as her stomach violently churned with a familiar, aggressive wave of morning sickness. She closed her eyes, trying to wipe the memory of Elvira’s bloodied face from her mind.

But her forced solitude didn’t last long.

A sudden, unnatural quiet fell over the corridor outside—the distant, routine chatter of the servants vanished instantly. Then came the sound. Distinct, heavy, and terrifyingly authoritative footsteps echoed against the marble floors, approaching her door without a single guard stepping in to intercept them. Before she could process the anomaly, a slow, deliberate knock rattled the wooden door.

"Isabella, leave me be! I already told you—" Olivia cut herself off, her voice laced with sheer exhaustion.

"Are you truly going to leave your own father standing outside your door like this, Olivia?"

At the sound of that deep, chillingly familiar voice, Olivia’s heart skipped a violent beat. She snapped her head up, her eyes widening in sheer horror. The blood inside her veins froze instantly, turning into absolute ice.

Standing right at the threshold of her office, leaning against the doorframe with a casual, predatory presence, was Duke Roland.

Before her mind could even formulate a defense, a primal, maternal instinct took over her body. Her hand instinctively flew to her abdomen, pressing hard against her stomach as if trying to shield the fragile life growing inside her from the malicious, all-seeing eyes of the monster before her.

"You..." Olivia gasped out, her throat suddenly dry as bone, her knuckles turning stark white as she gripped the edges of her desk to keep from shaking.

Roland stepped completely into the room, a wide, sweeping smile gracing his hardened face—a smile that was entirely empty, never reaching his cold, calculating eyes.

"Has my name officially become ’You’ now?" Roland chuckled softly, his heavy boots clicking sharply against the marble floor as he slowly closed the distance between them. "Where have your manners gone, to address your own father in such a careless manner?"

"How... how did you get in here?!" Olivia demanded, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the violent trembling in her knees.

"Am I not the father of the Duchess?" Roland replied, spreading his arms wide with an air of theatrical innocence that sickened her. "Did you truly think your guards wouldn’t allow me in to check on my newly widowed daughter? To offer her my deepest condolences? After all... I am your loving, doting father."

"What do you want? Why are you here?" Olivia spat out, her voice sharpening into a lethal blade as she refused to back down under his heavy, suffocating gaze.

"You know exactly why I am here, Olivia," Roland replied, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling undertone, the fake warmth slipping away like shed skin to reveal the apex predator underneath.

"I don’t know, and I don’t care to know," Olivia sneered, her eyes flashing with pure defiance. "Get the hell out of my castle."

"Oh? It’s *your* castle now?" Roland let out a dry, mocking laugh, taking another slow, deliberate step toward her desk, his shadow stretching over her paperwork. "It seems you are truly enjoying playing the role of the grieving, powerful widow, aren’t you? You’ve grown arrogant."

"Roland Tharon, get out before I call the guards!" Olivia hissed, using his full name like a curse, her body rigid with a mixture of rage and mounting adrenaline.

’’Where is that bastard Leon when I actually need him?!’’ Olivia screamed in her mind, her thoughts spiraling into a frantic panic. Of all the days he could have chosen, why did he have to leave for the Imperial Palace today? Why today?! She was entirely on her own, cornered by the wolf in her own territory.

"The guards?" Roland chuckled, a low, vicious sound vibrating deep in his chest. "Do you truly think that handful of fools outside are capable of throwing me out? Let’s stop playing these pathetic games. Now, let us return to our primary matter."

He took a sharp step forward, slamming both hands onto her desk and leaning in until his breath fanned her face. "Where is my daughter?"

"Your daughter?" Olivia replied, her voice dropping into a dry, mocking tone, masking her terror with pure spite. "And why on earth would that be my concern?"

"I know it was you, Olivia," Roland hissed, his eyes narrowing into cold, murderous slits. "You’ve been rebelling for quite some time now. So tell me, where the hell is my child?!"

"As I already said, I have no idea. Now, leave."

In an instant, the last remnants of Roland’s fake composure shattered, replaced by a wave of pure, unbridled fury. He lunged across the desk, his massive, scarred hand clamping violently around her jaw, squeezing her temples with a bone-crushing pressure that forced her head back.

"You wretched whore... *where is Elvira?!*"

Despite the blinding pain radiating through her skull, Olivia didn’t flinch. The fire of her hatred burned brighter than any fear. Looking him straight in his bloodshot eyes, she gathered the saliva in her mouth and spat directly into his face.

"And I am telling you, you bastard," she whispered through gritted teeth, "I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

Wiping the spit from his cheek, Roland’s face contorted into something monstrous, completely stripped of humanity. He raised his heavy, iron-like fist into the air, aiming a brutal, unforgiving blow right at her face.

Olivia instinctively shut her eyes tight, her entire body bracing for the impact. In that single, terrifying second, a thousand frantic prayers rushed through her mind—prayers not for herself, but for the tiny, fragile life growing inside her abdomen.

She begged the heavens not to let this monster destroy her future, not to let her past tragedy repeat itself. The agonizing flood of her childhood traumas—every beating, every cold night—flashed before her eyes like a cruel, suffocating blur.

She waited for the shattering pain.

But it never came. Roland’s fist froze mid-air, abruptly halted by a sudden, unbreakable grip that locked like an iron manacle around his thick wrist.

"By what right do you dare raise your hand against the Duchess of Locron, Tharon?"