CHAPTER 132: THE DEVIL’S DINNER PT2

Lydia kept on laughing like someone had just told a joke—one so absurd it hurt more than it amused. But it wasn’t laughter from joy. It sounded like glass cracking in a quiet room. Bitter. Sharp. And deeply uncomfortable. Everyone at the table just sat there, stunned. No one knew whether to look at her or away. It felt like she had brought winter with her, and it was slowly freezing the room.

Olga’s brows drew together. She wasn’t used to being confused, but she was now. Alexander shifted in his seat and cleared his throat once, then didn’t say anything. Even Tatiana, who always seemed to have something to say, was completely still. Her eyes flicked from Lydia to Ivan, waiting for someone to speak.

Ivan looked down at his plate. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stared at nothing, the way someone does when they’re trying to keep their heart from reacting. He knew that laugh. He knew what her real one used to sound like—light and soft, like it danced out of her without effort. This wasn’t it. This laugh had thorns.

Then, like a curtain dropping, Lydia stopped laughing. Her face became blank again. Cold. Her lips, which had curled into that bitter smile, fell still. She looked straight at Olga and said, flatly, "Are you done?"

The way she said it—it wasn’t rude. It wasn’t emotional. But it cut through the air like a knife.

"If you think you’ll get me to leave this marriage by bringing my uncle and my cousins here to convince me," she continued, "then you’re not just mistaken, Your Majesty. You’re a fool."

There wasn’t a trace of hesitation in her voice. Just blunt truth.

Olga stood up sharply, her chair screeching back. Her face turned red. "How dare you speak to me like that?" she snapped. "In case you’ve forgotten, I am the queen."

Lydia didn’t blink. Her hands remained neatly folded on her lap. "And so what?" she said coolly. "Even if you’re the queen, you should at least learn to mind your business."

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. It was calm, almost empty. Like she didn’t care enough to feel anything.

Alexander leaned forward slightly, his face tight with concern. "Lydia," he said softly, "that’s inappropriate. Apologise to her."

But she turned to him slowly. Her stare was unreadable, but her words were scorching.

"And who do you think you are to come here?" she asked, her tone still flat. "Since when did you become my family?"

Alexander opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Last time I checked," she said, and now her voice trembled, just a little, "you are not my family. You’re the man who stole my inheritance and tried to marry me off to a dying count. All so I wouldn’t have a child that could take back what was mine."

The room was frozen. You could hear the faint tapping of a spoon against a plate, the distant howl of wind outside.

"You must be scared, Uncle," she added. "Scared that if I have a son with him, I’ll take everything back."

She looked around the room slowly, letting her gaze settle on each face one by one. No fear. No shame. Just cold indifference.

"But don’t worry," she said, almost mockingly. "I have no plans to take anything. I know you’d all be homeless if I did. So relax."

Then her tone turned harder. "Stop pretending to be the caring uncle. You never were. Go back to your estate. And leave me alone."

Her cousins—Elena, Anya, Mikhail, and Pyotr—sat frozen. They had never seen her like this. Lydia had always been the composed one, the soft-spoken one. Now she looked like someone who had burned everything soft inside her just to survive.

Elena stood up, a little shaky. "Lydia, how can you—"

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. "It’s Your Highness." Her voice was quiet, but it carried weight.

She rose from her seat. Every movement was slow, calculated, controlled. Like a storm had passed through her, and all that remained was stillness.

"Let me make myself clear," she said. "I will not leave this marriage, whether you like it or not. I don’t care if she’s expecting a child or not. If you want me gone..." she paused, her eyes steady, "you’ll have to kill me."

Then she turned to Ivan. Her face didn’t change. Her voice didn’t crack.

"And if you think about divorcing me, Your Highness," she added bitterly, "I will set both of us on fire."

A long silence followed. Then she glanced at Vladimir, just once. Her tone softened—not with kindness, but with formality.

"I’ll take my leave tomorrow. I’m going back to Svetlana. I have duties there."

No one moved. She didn’t wait for a response. She simply turned and walked away, leaving the door swinging gently behind her.

Ivan stood up fast and followed her out.

Outside, the night air hit hard. It was cold. Still. Lydia walked fast, her dress trailing behind her like smoke. He caught up, reached for her wrist.

"Lydia..." he said softly.

She pulled away like his touch burned. "Don’t ever touch me," she snapped.

He opened his mouth, trying to find words. But there was nothing left to say.

Her eyes met his. They weren’t full of tears. They weren’t angry. They were empty.

She stared at him for a moment. Then she walked away, her footsteps sharp against the stone path.

"Coward," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Back in the dining room, the silence was thick like fog. No one spoke. No one dared. Everyone was still sitting exactly as they were, like the air itself had turned to ice.

Tatiana looked like all the color had drained from her. She sat stiff, her lips parted slightly in disbelief.

Olga stood, her fists clenched tight. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her pride had been stepped on in front of everyone, and she was boiling.

Alexander stood up slowly, trying to hold what was left of his dignity. "I’m sorry for my niece’s behaviour," he said quietly. "I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s usually calm. Respectful."

Olga didn’t look at him. "Get out," she said coldly. "I want you and your family to leave. Now."

They didn’t argue. They simply stood and bowed quietly. No one spoke on the way out. Not even Elena, who had started crying silently.

Outside, the night was colder than before. The wind howled low. Pyotr tugged at his father’s coat.

"Papa," he whispered, "why is Lydia so cold now? She’s like... a different person."

Alexander didn’t answer. He stared ahead, his face heavy. In his heart, he knew the answer. He just didn’t have the courage to speak it out loud.

Back inside, Olga was pacing. Her heels echoed with every angry step.

"I’ll make her pay," she muttered under her breath.

No one dared speak. Not even Tatiana.

Everyone knew—something had broken tonight.

And it wasn’t going to be fixed.