Chapter 80
Whatever You Want

The maid broke into sobs. In the cold, stifling silence of the drawing room, her pitiful crying rose all the louder.

“Good heavens. Feigning illness, is it?”

Elise von Herhardt’s gaze was full of open contempt as it lingered on the maid’s hand. Once the bandages were removed, it was clear—a shallow cut remained, nothing more. Not the kind of injury that could possibly prevent her from doing her work.

“Such insolence.”

Katharina von Herhardt gave a derisive laugh, her eyes equally frigid. Between them, Claudine kept her lips tightly sealed. Her hands rested stiffly upon her knees.

“Doctor, look again carefully.”

It was Matthias who finally broke his silence, his voice slow and deliberate. His brow tilted slightly toward Dr. Etman, his expression still grave.

“Perhaps the bone is fractured.”

“Your Grace, I…”

Dr. Etman faltered. The truth had been laid bare the moment the bandages were removed from the maid’s trembling hand—dragged into the room as pale as death.

“There’s nothing beyond a small cut. No damage whatsoever to prevent her from using her hand.”

Forcing his voice steady, the doctor delivered his conclusion. Murmurs and sighs rippled through the room. Claudine remained poised, though her eyes flickered slightly—small enough a tremor that only the keenest observer would catch it.

“But I had been told the maid was gravely injured, unable to work. Isn’t that so, Lady Brandt?”

Matthias turned to her, brows knit as though baffled. Instantly, all eyes shifted to Claudine.

“…Yes. I truly believed that was the case.”

“Then your maid deceived you.”

“Regrettably… it seems so.”

Meeting her maid’s eyes briefly, Claudine answered evenly.

Matthias rose and walked toward the girl, who only sobbed harder, lips sealed as though resolved to shoulder all the blame herself. He saw something new in this scene—a strength in Claudine von Brandt. She knew how to command loyalty, how to make her servants shield her even at their own expense. A quality befitting a duchess.

“So, you lied…”

There was a faint amusement in Matthias’s voice. The maid startled, lowering her hands from her face to meet his gaze, wide and terrified. He did not look away.

“You dared to lie… to my woman.”

His words grew lower, softer, almost tender. The emotion in his eyes was closer to curiosity than anger.

“Please, forgive Marie, Your Grace.”

Claudine finally moved. Countess Brandt tried to stop her, but Claudine shook her off, striding to her maid’s side. The girl looked ready to faint where she stood.

“Marie has been under great strain. I failed her as a mistress—so desperate to rest, she lied. The fault is mine as well. I beg you, forgive her for my sake.”

“You would apologize for a maid who deceived you. How merciful you are, my lady.”

“She has served me faithfully for many years. Yes, she was foolish today, but to cast her out over one mistake would be heartless.”

Driven into a corner, Claudine grew bolder.

“And I believe you, more than anyone, will understand my heart, Your Grace. After all, you spared the gardener who caused that great calamity, allowing him to remain here at Arvis.”

Her eyes locked on his, cold and steady. If this was a game where the bolder, more shameless side triumphed, she would not lose. Even knowing everything, Matthias would never reveal it.

After a pause, Matthias smiled faintly and nodded.

“It seems you’ve come to understand the decision you once questioned—my choice not to dismiss the gardener.”

The riposte made Claudine draw a sharp, silent breath.

“Such generosity, such breadth of understanding. Remarkable. For the sake of so noble a lady, even I am inclined to forgive the maid’s foolishness.”

He spoke as though praising a child, and color crept into Claudine’s cheeks.

“But even so, should not this maid make amends for her impudence?”

“I… I will go to Layla tomorrow. With Marie.”

“And why is that?”

“Because Layla is the one who suffered most from my maid’s deception.”

Claudine’s composure cracked; humiliation flushed her face red.

“Ah, I see.”

Matthias nodded lightly, his gaze narrowing.

“But isn’t it strange for you to go yourself? That would make it seem as though the fault were yours.”

“He’s right, Claudine,” Countess Brandt added. “It was a maid’s foolish mistake. Why would you apologize to that girl yourself?”

The more Claudine faltered, the calmer Matthias became.

“Let the maid atone for her mistake. Your dignity, my lady, is mine as well.”

His words were delivered like comfort, yet Claudine felt a chill down to her bones. She suddenly realized how foolish she had been to try sparring with him. And absurdly, she found herself grateful that this cold-blooded man’s fixation was not on her, but on Layla Llewellyn.

“…Yes, Your Grace.”

He guided her to that one answer, as smoothly as ever. And when she surrendered, his face showed no triumph, no satisfaction. He simply turned back to the maid.

“Remember this well, Marie.”

His gaze lingered on her pale face.

“Remember the mercy your mistress has shown you tonight.”

The annex lay in darkness, swallowed by the black of the riverbank. Matthias exhaled, his breath a pale cloud in the frozen air.

He had meant to turn toward the gardener’s cottage, but changed his mind, striding up the annex steps instead. That foolish girl might not have lit a lamp at all.

The door creaked open and shut, leaving silence again. Inside was dark and cold—no lamp, no fire. He knew then she had not come, but still he searched every corner, unwilling to let go of that sliver of hope.

The air was dead and frozen, as though the chill of his absence had seeped into every wall. By the time he reached the bedroom door, he found himself almost praying she had disobeyed him. And when he opened it, it seemed his prayer was answered: the room was just as dark, just as still.

He exhaled in relief, beginning to turn—then stopped.

No.

His eyes had adjusted enough to see.

By the unlit fireplace, curled in the wing chair, sat Layla. Wrapped in coat, gloves, and scarf, she slept, small and still, like a helpless creature in its mother’s womb. But against the cold, it was far from enough.

Matthias dragged a hand down his face, unclenching the fist he hadn’t realized he was making. So stubborn when it meant nothing—yet yielding in matters like this. The thought made bile rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, took a step forward.

At that, Layla stirred. Her eyes opened, dazed from sleep, her face soft and defenseless. It didn’t take long, though, for fear, fury, and bitter resignation to mar her features.

“So. Given up on starving, now you’ll freeze to death instead?”

Matthias crouched at the fireplace, striking a flame. The logs were already stacked—he needed only to light them.

“Or do you not even know how to build a fire?”

The blaze roared to life. Matthias stood, the fire at his back, looking down at her. She glared up at him, body drawn tight.

“Because then it would show.”

“Show what?”

“The smoke. From the chimney.”

The firelight painted her face starkly pale, as though she could slip into eternal sleep at any moment.

“You can’t have smoke rising from an empty house.”

“And who would come here at this hour?”

“Still… I don’t want it.”

Unfolding her arms from around her knees, she lowered her feet to the floor. Her gloved hands fidgeted nervously. Matthias’s lips twisted.

“Shouldn’t you have thought of leaving instead?”

“You ordered me to wait, Your Grace.”

“And since when have you ever obeyed my orders so readily?”

“Because if I weren’t here, you would have come to me.”

Her voice was weary, but her eyes were sharp, cold.

“Better to freeze to death than let you into my home.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps I should visit the cottage after all.”

He tossed more wood into the fire, feeding the flames.

“You’d cry beautifully, wouldn’t you, if you hated it that much.”

“I despise you. I hate you.”

“Try harder, Layla. The same words, over and over—they bore me.”

“Then I’m glad. I’ve never wanted to entertain you.”

At least she still had spirit enough to retort. That meant she wouldn’t freeze to death here.

Matthias gave a dry laugh, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto the bench by the bed. Layla flinched, rising to her feet, but he was faster.

He pulled her into his arms, her chilled body writhing uselessly against him. He sat back into the chair where she had been, holding her tightly as she struggled. At last, she went limp, her resistance falling away. His hand gentled, stroking her hair.

“Then at least… finish quickly tonight.”

Her voice was a sigh against his shoulder. His hand, which had been playing with her braid, stilled.

“What?”

His voice was colder than the air in the room.

“Whatever it is. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes lifted weakly to his. They looked ancient, worn, exhausted.

“No matter what I say, you’ll do what you want anyway. So… just do it quickly.”

Her lashes trembled, shadows falling across the redness in her eyes. But she wasn’t looking at him anymore—her gaze was fixed on nothing, vacant.

“I just want to go back… and rest.”