She will be arriving soon," he said, his voice flat, never once looking at her.
A heavy pause hung between them.
"Do you wish for me to receive her?" Olivia asked.
"No. Do as you please. I only thought you should know."
His hands fell away from her dress, and with them, any lingering warmth vanished.
Olivia turned to face him fully then, searching his features as though she could glimpse a reflection of her own internal storm. Perhaps she did. The dread twisting in her stomach was an old acquaintance—it was the same chilling unease she felt whenever she faced her mother.
It was the quiet voice of inadequacy, whispering from the shadows of her mind.
But she would not show it. Not now. Not to him.
"Then let us go to the receiving hall," she declared, her voice a shield of distant composure. "She is but a commoner now. There is no need for us to act as a welcoming committee. She is the one who should be greeting us."
