Chapter 361: The Foolish Woman

The scent of agarwood filled the room, soothing and calming the senses. Oliver had always been fond of agarwood—it brought him peace.

“Sit down,” Cristina said, settling into her chair and lifting her gaze to him. Her expression was a mix of resentment and cold indifference.

“No need,” Oliver replied coolly. “I heard you wanted to see me. Get to the point.”

“Killing a man is one thing, but do you have to be so cruel?” Cristina’s voice was icy.

“And what makes you say that?” Oliver asked.

She rose gracefully, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. The hem of her dress swept across the pristine floor, resembling a golden fish gliding through still waters. The scent of his body—subtle yet distinct—drifted into her senses at this close distance. She inhaled it, her heart twisting with pain. This man should have been hers.

“Fate bound us in this life because of debts from the last. Though we never wed, our destinies are still entangled. There are no tigers or wolves here—are you truly so wary of me that you won’t even sit down? Or…” Her voice sharpened. “Was everything Isolde did today your doing? Did you find satisfaction in your revenge?”

Oliver had no patience for pointless arguments over seating arrangements. He sat down, his expression impassive. “Fine. Talk.”

Cristina studied his face. “You haven’t answered me yet. Do you even know what Isolde did to me today?”

“I do.”

“And it was your order?”

“More or less.”

“I don’t believe you.” Cristina’s eyes turned sharp.

Oliver let out a faint chuckle. “Believe what you want. It’s the truth.”

Cristina gasped, her expression filled with disbelief. “You… You’ve forgotten me so easily?”

“I never had feelings for you in the first place. What is there to forget?”

“You—!” Cristina’s eyes reddened, stubborn tears welling up. “We were supposed to be married! And you say you never had feelings for me?”

“We met a few times, and the engagement was arranged. Had we married, perhaps feelings would have grown in time. But since that never happened, there is nothing to speak of. What’s so strange about that?”

Cristina finally saw the truth—her fantasies had been nothing but delusions. First, Jonathan rejected her.

The intoxicating scent of the incense thickened, clouding her thoughts. A warmth spread through her body. She gazed at Oliver, eyes shimmering, suppressing the unwillingness in her heart. “Let me ask you one thing: if I am willing to be your concubine, will you accept me?”

Oliver shook his head slowly. “I will never take a concubine.”

Cristina felt her heart shatter. “Why? Is it because of her?”

“Yes.”

“What does she have that I don’t?” Cristina suddenly lost control, screaming. “How is she better than me?”

“There’s no need for comparisons. I think she is, and that’s enough.”

Cristina staggered back, staring at him, tears spilling down her face. She took a deep breath, swallowing her sobs. “I’ve already humbled myself this much. What more do you want? I’m willing to be a concubine, to endure humiliation, and you—you’re still holding this against me?”

Oliver studied her trembling form, her desperate struggle to keep from crying. He sighed. “Isolde wanted you gone to vent my anger. But truthfully, I don’t hate you. I simply cannot keep you here. She is enough for me. You don’t need to lower yourself. If you leave the Valen family, you can still find a husband, be a proper wife, and live a dignified life. There’s no need for this. That is my final answer.”

With that, he turned to leave. Cristina’s head snapped up. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him from behind, sobbing. “If you don’t hate me, then look at me properly—just once.”

The moment her body pressed against his, Oliver felt a searing heat rush through him. A brief daze flickered across his mind. Cristina clung to him, her breath warm and unsteady. Oliver pried her arms away and looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy with desire. A frown crept onto his face. His gaze shifted to the incense burner, smoke curling in the air.

The door opened and shut again in an instant. He glanced back—Mell and Evie had quietly left. Cristina pressed closer, her lips parting to kiss him. Oliver lifted a hand, blocking her face, his voice low and firm. “You don’t have to degrade yourself like this. Pack your things and leave tomorrow.”

Cristina was beyond reasoning. She leaned in again, her lips seeking his, but Oliver pushed her away. He turned, strode to the door, and walked out without looking back. Cristina collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oliver! Isolde! You want me gone? Fine! But I won’t let you have your happiness either!” she wailed, pounding the floor.

Mell and Evie rushed in to help her up after Oliver left.

“Lady Cristina, I used a strong dose, yet he was completely unaffected. Maybe… we should give up and leave,” Mell hesitated, feeling sorry for her.

“I will not leave the Valen family. Even if I lose everything, I will stay. And I will make them pay.”

She gripped Evie’s hand tightly, her face feverish with desire. Through clenched teeth, she ordered, “Go. Now. And light the incense again.”

“Yes,” Evie answered, seeing her mistress’s current state and knowing there was no stopping her.

Isolde had estimated that the conversation would last at least half an hour, given Cristina’s stubbornness. Half an hour was a conservative guess. Yet, in just ten minutes, Oliver stormed through the door like a whirlwind.

Isolde looked up in surprise. “That was fast.”

“Esme, leave. I need to speak with Isolde,” Oliver ordered, his gaze dark and dangerous.

“Understood.” Esme quickly took Noelle with her.

Isolde rose to her feet. “What…” Before she could finish, the world spun. She was lifted off her feet and thrown onto the bed.

“Don’t rip…” A sharp “rip” echoed as fabric tore. Isolde sighed. That was the second nightgown ruined. Good thing she had made five. Cristina really had gone all out with the drugs this time.

A sharp sting spread across her chest as Oliver’s lips descended, his kiss devouring and punishing, his body pressing her into the bed.

Outside, Noelle, worried about Oliver’s grim expression, clutched Esme’s sleeve. “Lord Oliver looked so angry when he left. Do you think he’ll blame Lady Isolde?”

Esme chuckled. “Silly girl. How could he ever bear to be angry with her?”

“But he looked terrifying, like he was about to tear someone apart,” Noelle said nervously.

A muffled gasp came from inside the room. Noelle’s eyes widened, and she jumped up. “Oh no! He really is hitting her!”

Esme grabbed her. “Calm down, girl. It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go to the side room.”

“But…”

“You little fool, what do you understand?” Esme dragged her away.