Lydia walked out of Vladimir’s study slowly. Her hands trembled slightly, though she tried to keep them still. The corridors felt unusually long and cold, the echo of her own footsteps making her heart pound faster. She could still feel Ivan’s presence lingering in the air, as if he had left a mark on the walls, on the floor, on her very skin. Every step away from the corridor felt heavier, as though each stride pulled at the strings of her heart.
She wrapped her arms around herself, though it didn’t help. Her pulse was loud in her ears, a chaotic drum of fear, longing, and a hurt she refused to fully admit even to herself. The mory of his eyes, of his voice, of the quiet pain in his expression—it all twisted inside her chest. She wanted to run, yet part of her wanted to go back, to face him, to ask, to scream, to beg for so truth. But she didn’t. She kept walking.
Then she collided with Olga.
It was instant. Lydia froze. Her body stiffened as if she had been struck by a sudden wind. The sharpness of Olga’s gaze cut through her like a blade. But she forced herself to compose her expression, to soften it just enough to mask the turmoil inside.
Olga’s lips curved into a knowing smile, her tone deceptively gentle. "I see you are doing well. You had us worried, you know."
Lydia bowed her head slightly. Her voice was soft, careful, asured. "My apologies, Your Majesty, for causing you worry."
Olga’s laugh was light but had a sharp edge to it. "It is not your fault, actually. You are just unfortunate. After everything you went through, yet you are still holding on. I can’t possibly imagine your pain. Getting abandoned by the man you loved... then watching your child die. It must have been unbearable."
Lydia’s fingers twitched. She felt a hot spike of anger and grief surge through her. She knew exactly what Olga was doing. The cruel precision in her words, the venom veiled as pity, it was all ant to wound. She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, trying desperately to stay calm.
Olga stepped closer, her voice softening, almost intimate. "I’m really sorry. I pushed you into it. You ca to for help, and I pushed you into this. I made you get ruined by the devil." She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. "But I did warn you. That you would be ruined. That he would burn you. But you didn’t listen. You were so in love with him."
Lydia felt her chest tighten. Her dress crumpled between her fingers, the fabric slipping as though reflecting her inner unraveling. Every word Olga spoke was a dagger, yet strangely, every word reminded her of what she had survived.
Olga’s voice softened, almost tender. "I understand you. I understand everything you feel. I too have gone through that pain. Loving soone who ended up betraying you. Giving your heart to soone and ending up burned. I can help you, Lydia. We can help each other."
She laughed quietly, a strange, chilling sound. "We can get our revenge. We can make him suffer."
Lydia laughed, too, but it was bitter and jagged, not a laugh of amusent but of madness. It was a laugh that tasted of tears and fire. "You may be a queen, Your Majesty, but you are delusional."
Olga’s eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Yes," Lydia said, her voice rising with clarity and defiance. "You are right. I hate Ivan. More than anything. I want him to suffer." Her lips quivered as she whispered the next part, a tremor of pure defiance in her voice. "But I hate you too. If you think that my hatred for Ivan ans an alliance with you, then you are a fool. A big fool."
She turned sharply, walking away, leaving Olga behind, mouth open, eyes blazing with silent rage. Every step Lydia took was heavy with anger and hurt, yet with a strange freedom that ca from speaking her truth aloud.
The courtyard was just ahead, bathed in soft, late-afternoon sunlight. The air was crisp, carrying the faint sll of earth and distant flowers, yet it did little to calm her. She wanted to cry, to scream, to shake the world for the cruelty of it all. But she held herself together, shoulders squared, head high.
As she rounded the corner of the stone path, she nearly ran into Leonid. He stepped forward, a gentle smile on his face, hands raised slightly as if to soften the sudden encounter. "Sister," he said quietly. "Can I talk to you?"
Lydia froze for a mont. She could feel her chest tighten again, a mixture of relief and anxiety. But sothing in his calm deanor drew her in. She nodded slightly.
"I want to apologize," she said quietly, her voice almost breaking. "For being harsh the day before. I... I didn’t an to—"
Leonid shook his head, cutting her off with a soft wave of his hand. "You need not apologize. I am not angry with you. I just... I wanted to tell you one thing. You must hear this from . Ivan didn’t do what everyone says. He didn’t abandon you."
Lydia stopped in her tracks. Her heart skipped a beat. The words fell into her mind, heavy, shocking, and almost impossible to believe. "What..." she breathed, her voice trailing off, trembling. Her eyes searched his face for any sign of jest, any shadow of doubt. She wanted to cling to his words, but her heart was too battered, too tired of hope.
Leonid looked at her with earnestness, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I know it’s hard to believe. But it is the truth. He didn’t leave you. Not like they say. Not in the way everyone believes. You have to know this, Lydia."
Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. Her lips parted, but no words ca. Her chest felt tight, heavy, as though the air had thickened around her. Part of her wanted to run to him, to demand answers, to fall into his arms, to hear every word, every excuse, every truth straight from him. Part of her wanted to curl up on the cold courtyard stones and cry for all the lost months, all the pain, all the heartbreak she had endured under the weight of lies.
Her mind was a storm. mories collided violently: the last ti she had seen Ivan, the mont she thought he had walked away for good, the silence that had haunted her nights, the letters that never ca, the cruel laughter of those who told her he had betrayed her. Every heartbeat scread with longing and doubt.
And yet, in that mont, Leonid’s words planted a seed of sothing fragile, almost impossible: hope. Hope that the man she had loved, the man she had hated, the man who had been erased from her life, was not gone. Not fully. Not in the way she had imagined.
She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. She couldn’t cry yet. Not here. Not when the truth might still be a blade she could hold or shatter with her hands.
Leonid took a cautious step closer, his voice gentle, almost a whisper against the wind. "He loved you, Lydia. He never stopped. Whatever you heard... it isn’t true. I swear it to you. He never stopped loving you."
Her knees weakened for just a mont. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against her dress. The courtyard felt impossibly wide and lonely, yet in that expanse, a spark of warmth stirred deep in her chest. She swallowed hard, trying to find her voice, trying to steady her trembling. "What..." Her voice was barely audible. "What did he... what happened?"
Leonid’s expression softened. "That... is for him to tell you. But believe when I say this: you were never abandoned. Never."
Her mind reeled with confusion and raw emotion. Anger, heartbreak, relief, hope—they all mingled in a chaotic storm. Her lips parted, ready to demand the truth, ready to beg for it, ready to scream at the heavens that she needed to know everything, now, before her heart shattered completely.
And yet she couldn’t. She could only stand there, frozen in the sunlight, feeling her world shift quietly, painfully, impossibly.
Her chest ached. Her mind spun. Her heart, that battered, weary heart, trembled at the thought that Ivan... that he had never left her.
She closed her eyes for a mont, drawing a shaky breath, as if trying to hold onto every fragnt of the mont, every word Leonid had spoken, every shadow of hope it carried.
Finally, she opened her eyes, wide and unblinking, her voice breaking as it caught in her throat. "What..."
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