"I beg your pardon? Did Your Grace say something?" Isabella's voice rang out with a forced, melodic cheerfulness that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Olivia leaned back into the velvet upholstery of her chair, her posture radiating a calculated grace. A cold, predatory glint flickered in her gaze. "Ah, so that is how we shall play this? Pretense and masks?"
"I'm afraid I'm still at a loss as to your meaning, Your Grace," Isabella replied, her hands steady as she reached for her tea, though the air between them had grown heavy with unspoken threats.
Without a word, Olivia reached into the hidden pocket of her silk gown and produced a heavy parchment envelope. She placed it on the marble table between them with a deliberate, soft thud. There, pressed into the wax, was the unmistakable seal of a butterfly—intricate, delicate, and damning.
"Does this perhaps serve to jog your failing memory?" Olivia asked, her voice a low purr.
