Chapter 227: The Devil’s Weapon
The sunset was beautiful. Very beautiful.
The sky was painted in strokes of gold, pink, and soft purple as the carriage rolled back into Svetlana. The light of the setting sun fell across the river, making it shimmer as if the whole city had been covered in liquid fire. The sight was breathtaking, but inside the carriage there was no peace, no warmth.
The air was heavy with silence. Lydia sat with her head slightly turned toward the window, her face calm but unreadable. She had not spoken for most of the journey. Her hands were resting on her lap, but her knuckles were pale from how tightly she was holding them together.
Ivan sat opposite her, watching her in silence. His heart had been screaming at him all through the journey. Tell her. Just tell her. Tell her the truth. Tell her everything.
Many times, he opened his mouth, ready to speak, but the words never came out. His tongue betrayed him, his courage failed him. Each time he looked at her face, at the coldness in her eyes, fear gripped him like chains. What if she did not believe him? What if she turned away? What if he destroyed what little chance there was left between them?
And so, he said nothing.
The clatter of the wheels against the cobblestones echoed as the carriage entered the palace gates. Guards bowed as they passed. Servants lined the courtyard. But Lydia did not look at any of them. She stepped out of the carriage gracefully and walked inside without a word. Ivan followed close behind her, his eyes fixed only on her, his heart desperate.
They walked together, their steps soft against the marble floor. The corridors of the palace glowed faintly in the last light of day. Ivan’s hand twitched at his side. His chest rose and fell heavily as he gathered the courage.
This time he would speak. He had to.
He turned slightly, his lips parting. "Lydia..." he whispered.
But before he could continue, a voice cut into the air.
"Your Highness," Tatiana’s sweet tone rang out as she stepped into the corridor.
Lydia froze. Ivan’s jaw tightened.
Tatiana bowed low, her face covered in the perfect mask of innocence. Her voice trembled with fake emotion as she said, "You returned. I was so worried."
Her eyes flicked toward Lydia as she placed a delicate hand on her stomach. "I went to see the doctor today," she said in a soft, excited tone. "He said the baby... our baby... is doing well. I am so excited."
Her tone was light, joyful, but her eyes were fixed on Lydia, sharp and taunting. Every word was carefully chosen to cut, every syllable meant to sting.
But Lydia only stared at her blankly. Her lips curved into the faintest of scoffs. Inside she thought, She thinks I care. She thinks this will wound me.
Her eyes did not show even a flicker of emotion. Not anger, not pain, not sadness. Nothing.
"I see," Lydia said in a calm voice, then turned and walked away.
Her skirts brushed against the marble floor as she disappeared down the corridor, her head held high, her steps graceful and light. She did not look back.
Tatiana’s lips twitched as she watched her go. Her chest burned with rage. How dare Lydia walk away without even flinching? How dare she act as though Tatiana’s words meant nothing?
The moment Lydia was gone, Tatiana turned to Ivan, ready to speak, ready to cling to him, ready to twist the knife deeper.
But Ivan’s face was unreadable. He glanced at her once, then turned his head and walked away without a word.
Her fingers clenched into fists squeezing her dress tightly. Her throat burned with the scream she wanted to release. She wanted to throw herself at him, to demand his attention, to force him to look at her. But she swallowed it down. Her face remained smooth, composed, her eyes lowered like a dutiful lady.
Only inside was she raging.
Ivan walked down the hall, his steps heavy, his chest aching. The words Tatiana had spoken echoed in his mind. Our baby. Doing well. Our baby.
It was like a knife twisting inside him. How could he even dream of Lydia’s forgiveness when every moment reminded her of his betrayal? How could he ask her to look at him again when Tatiana’s pregnancy stood as proof of the greatest wound he had ever caused her?
There was no hope. None at all.
He lowered his head as he walked, shame pressing down on him like chains. What he did not know was that Tatiana’s pregnancy was a lie. A cruel, carefully woven lie.
A lie that was destroying him.
A few minutes later, Lydia was sitting in her chamber. She had removed her dress and jewellery. She was in a soft robe which shimmered faintly in the candlelight. Her posture was calm, but her eyes were distant, staring into nothing.
The door opened quietly. Katherine stepped inside, bowing lightly. "Your Highness," she said gently, "the servants are preparing a bath for you."
Lydia turned her head and gave a small nod. "No problem," she said softly.
She looked at Katherine with a faint smile. "Go and rest. You must be tired from the journey."
But Katherine did not move. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers twisting together nervously. Then she spoke.
"Your Highness," she said slowly, "I heard something. From Xenia."
Lydia’s eyes flickered with curiosity. "What is it?"
Katherine took a breath. "She said... Lady Orlova is really not pregnant. She even had evidence. But you... you told her to destroy it."
Lydia’s eyes did not move from Katherine’s face. Her voice was calm, controlled. "Yes. I did."
Katherine blinked in shock. "But why? Why would you?"
Lydia leaned back slightly, her expression cool, her eyes sharp.
"Because," she said quietly, her tone almost a whisper, "I need her lies."
Katherine stared at her, stunned, unable to understand.
The candles flickered in the silence. Lydia’s face remained unreadable, but inside her heart was burning.