Chapter 103: A Cold Slap On The Face
Lydia stood frozen.
Her breath slowed, but her heart raced.
It beat so loud in her chest, she could barely hear anything else. Like it was trying to escape her ribs. She felt the air thin around her, like the walls had crept closer without warning. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Even blinking felt like too much effort.
Her spine burned from the effort of standing still, but she didn’t move. Her eyes darted to the marble floors, the columns, the windows—anywhere but ahead. But it was no use. She could feel her coming.
Olga was coming closer, her heels clicking slowly against the cold floor.
Each step sounded louder than the last.
Click. Click. Click.
Sharp and slow, as if she had all the time in the world. Lydia’s eyes didn’t move, but her stomach twisted tighter with each click. The sound felt like it was echoing inside her skull, drilling in rhythm with her panic.
Her breathing grew thinner. It wasn’t fear that held her now—it was something colder. Shame. Dread. Regret. A war of emotions tangled inside her chest until her ribs ached. She couldn’t even swallow. She felt like a girl again, small and helpless, waiting to be scolded.
Ivan stood beside Lydia, but the moment he felt Olga’s presence, his whole body changed. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.
Lydia noticed how his breath caught for just a second. His eyes darkened, and his neck stiffened like stone. He didn’t need to say a word—his whole body spoke for him. Rage. Disgust. Pain.
She saw the vein in his neck pulse. She saw the way he flexed his fingers, like he was fighting himself not to lash out.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t need to. The silence between them was loud enough.
It crackled like fire, even though the corridor was cold. Lydia felt it press against her chest, heavy and raw. Ivan’s silence said more than shouting ever could. It was the silence of someone who’d bled too long to waste words anymore.
Her fingers itched to reach out to him. To hold him. To tell him she was still here, still on his side. But something in his expression told her not to. Not now.
He turned around and walked away.
His steps were hard, deliberate. Lydia could feel it—he didn’t want to be near Olga. He couldn’t stand to even look at her.
And Olga knew that.
It pleased her.
A smirk curved across her face as she watched him disappear.
There was something venomous in that smile. It wasn’t satisfaction—it was power. The kind that comes from knowing someone else is still wounded.
That kind of cruelty didn’t come from pettiness. It came from history. And Lydia knew that history ran deep.
Now, it was just her and Lydia.
Lydia felt her stomach twist.
Her fingers trembled.
She looked away, trying to steady her breath. But her hands were cold, and her skin felt clammy. Her knees were weak, yet she forced herself to stand tall.
She could hear the soft rustle of Olga’s gown, the slow drag of her breath, even the faint jingle of the jewelry on her wrist. All of it made Lydia feel sick.
Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed stones. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Even blinking made her feel vulnerable, like if she closed her eyes too long, she might break.
She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. But more than anything, she wanted to disappear.
Olga walked closer until she was right in front of her. Her voice was like cold syrup as she said, "You look so tense, my dear. Relax. I’m not here because of our little deal. I’m only here for the ball."
She smiled again, a cruel smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
"There’s still a week till the month ends. No need to panic just yet. You still have time."
She turned around, as if she was already done. As if Lydia was just a decoration in the hallway. Her perfume lingered, heavy and sweet, making Lydia’s stomach churn. Every movement Olga made felt deliberate—measured steps meant to belittle.
Lydia wanted to throw up. But instead, she stood straighter.
But Lydia’s voice came out, louder than she expected.
"I won’t do it."
The words shocked even her. They trembled at the edges but rang clear.
Her chest heaved after she said it. Like she had ripped something out of her own lungs. The weight of silence afterward was unbearable.
Olga stopped. Her heels froze in place. She turned her head slowly.
Downstairs, Ivan had already reached the hall. He had just taken a few steps when he saw Vladimir standing at the edge. It was the worst possible timing. Running into Olga had already shaken him, and now this. Vladimir.
Salt on an open wound.
Ivan tried to walk past him, keeping his head down, but Vladimir spoke gently.
"Ivan," he said. "Can we talk? Just for a moment?"
Ivan stopped, turned around.
"You reek of alcohol," Vladimir added. "Are you alright?"
Ivan’s voice came back cold.
"What’s it to you? Since when did you care about me?" He gave a dry laugh. "Don’t pretend to care now. And I would appreciate if you stop calling me that. Stop pretending we’re anything more than strangers."
Vladimir stayed calm.
"I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk. That’s all."
Ivan shook his head.
"You and I have nothing to talk about. So please, your majesty, stay away from me. I don’t care what reasons you had for bringing that stupid ball here. But now that you did, stay out of my way until it’s over. And then go back to the capital."
He walked away without waiting for a reply. Vladimir stood still, eyes heavy with guilt. He wanted to speak. He wanted to explain. But Ivan didn’t give him the chance. His footsteps echoed down the corridor like a closing door.
Even Leonid, who was walking down the corridor, didn’t dare speak. He saw Ivan’s face and knew not to say a word.
Back upstairs, Olga turned slowly to Lydia.
"What did you say?"
Lydia stood firm this time. Her voice didn’t tremble.
"I said I won’t do it. I won’t spy on Ivan for you. I won’t keep my end of the deal. I won’t hurt him."
She took a shaky breath.
"I won’t let you use me to destroy him. I know what you’re doing. You hate him. You want to ruin him. But I won’t be a part of it. I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I love him. I love him too much to do this to him. He’s been through enough."
Her voice broke as she added softly, "Just stop. Please. Just stop."
There was silence.
Then Olga laughed.
A loud, cruel laugh.
It echoed in the hallway. Lydia’s eyes widened. She didn’t expect that.
The laugh cut through her like a blade—too loud, too sharp, too cruel.
Olga walked closer and gently cupped Lydia’s face like a mother comforting a child. But her fingers were cold. Her nails dug slightly into Lydia’s cheeks. Lydia didn’t flinch, but her breath caught in her throat. It felt like a punishment—this false tenderness, this mockery of care.
"You’re not just in love," Olga said slowly. "You actually believe in him. You think he’ll forgive you. That he’ll hold you and everything will be alright."
She let go of Lydia’s face and stepped back.
"You’re such a sweet little soul. So pure. So naïve."
Her voice lowered.
"If you think Ivan will forgive you when he finds out what you agreed to do, then you aren’t just foolish. You’re delusional."
She leaned in, whispered into Lydia’s ear.
"Go ahead. Tell him everything. And when he looks at you like you’re dirt, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
She pulled back and smiled.
"Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your coffin matches your pretty face. You have one week, your highness. Think about what you really want."
With that, she walked away. Her laughter echoed faintly as her steps faded.
Just as Lydia was about to collapse from the weight of it all, Vladimir entered the hallway.
Lydia saw him and quickly straightened up. She wiped her eyes and greeted him politely. She forced the corners of her lips into a small, practiced smile.
Vladimir looked at her kindly.
"Can I talk to you?"
Lydia nodded.
Farther down the hall, Olga walked until she saw Tatiana standing alone. She gave her a mocking smile.
Tatiana said nothing. But her hands were tight. Her eyes burned. She wanted so badly to slap that smile off Olga’s face. Her jaw clenched until it ached.
Outside, the cold wind was sharp. Ivan mounted his horse and rode away without looking back.
He needed air. He needed silence. He needed to forget. But the cold did nothing to numb what was eating him inside. And forgetting seemed impossible now.