Chapter 49: A Proposal

“I just went out for a walk,” Jacqueline scoffed. “Not like there’s much work to do around here anyway.” She couldn’t stand the way Helena strutted around like some high-ranking maid. They were both just girls taken in by the estate—what made her so special?

Isolde ignored her attitude and gave a calm order. “Go and have dinner prepared. I’m inviting Oliver to eat with me. We’ll dine in the pavilion—set up a bonfire.”

Jacqueline grimaced at the workload. “There are too many mosquitoes outside. Why not eat in your room instead?”

Isolde gave her a level look. “Would you like me to serve you instead?”

Jacqueline froze, then hurriedly bowed her head. “I wouldn’t dare. I’ll see to it immediately.” And with that, she scurried away.

Dinner was a grand affair. The bonfire burned bright, casting golden light over the estate and making the surrounding mountains glow as if bathed in daylight. To ward off the mosquitoes, Isolde had the servants burn mugwort. Its sharp scent clung to the air, blending with the rich aroma of the food, giving the evening a rustic charm.

The wind picked up, tugging at her already loose hair, sending a few strands tumbling free. Oliver, now dressed in a simple farmer’s tunic, had let his hair down, loosely tying it at the nape of his neck. Without the formality of his usual attire, he looked strikingly carefree—almost like a wandering swordsman, untamed and unbothered by the world.

“A simple meal,” Isolde said with a soft smile. “No need for formalities, Oliver.” She wore a long, embroidered gown, its delicate seams gleaming under the firelight. Around her neck hung a brilliant red coral necklace—one Oliver recognized immediately. Before leaving for Montlins Manor, he had made sure to bring it with him.

“The food is good,” Oliver remarked. Then, with a pointed look at the necklace, he added, “And so is your jewelry.”

Isolde’s fingers brushed against the cold beads, her smile deepening. “It is beautiful. I like it very much.”

“Mr. Becker treats you well,” Oliver noted.

Isolde didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for a ladle, pouring him a cup of warm crab-infused wine. “Try this.”

Oliver took a sip and immediately frowned. “Not strong enough.”

“Strength has its merits,” Isolde said, her tone light. “But so does sweetness.”

Oliver took another sip, this time savoring the flavor. The richness of the crab, the subtle warmth of the…

“Not bad,” he admitted. “Do you drink this often?”

“At Belleview Manor, Amber always told me young ladies shouldn’t drink strong liquor,” Isolde said. “She said warming the wine with herbs made it gentler on the body. So I drank it with nearly every meal.”

“Amber?”

“My nursemaid.”

Oliver’s brows lifted slightly. “She’s in Windermount now…”

Isolde took another sip of her wine, her cheeks flushed from the heat. “She’s dead,” she said simply.

“She died shortly after I returned to Argentum,” Isolde continued. “She had always been sick. That’s why she was so desperate for someone to come fetch me from Windermount—she was afraid that if she passed, I’d have no one to take care of me. She thought… that once I returned home, I’d finally be safe.”

She turned her cup in her hands, her lips curving into a cold, detached smile.

Oliver studied her carefully. The firelight shimmered in her eyes, making them appear wet, but upon closer inspection, there were no tears.

“You still have Mr. Becker,” he said quietly. “Just as I still have Pablo.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Isolde said, setting her cup down. Her voice was steady, unwavering. “I’m not sad. If anything, I’m luckier than most.”

Oliver was taken aback. He had expected bitterness, self-pity—but there was none. Even after everything she had endured, she refused to wallow in grief.

“Have you thought about what comes next?” he asked. “Your stepmother and half-sister won’t give up so easily.”

“They’re finished,” Isolde said matter-of-factly. “The Velmont family will never take Michelle back. As a discarded wife, she has no power left. And Matilda has lost Geoffrey’s trust. They aren’t threats anymore.”

Oliver studied her face. “Then why do you seem troubled? Something else is bothering you.”

Isolde hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s troublesome, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Oliver leaned back. “I remember asking you before—if you still wanted to marry William.”

Isolde’s lips curled slightly. “You did ask me that.”

“Your refusal,” Oliver said, “is it because of Eleanor?”

Isolde lifted her gaze, her eyes reflecting the flickering fire. “What do you think of William?” she asked. “As a man. As a husband?”

Oliver took another sip of wine, his expression unreadable. “By appearance, family status, and background,” he said slowly, “he’s an excellent match.”

“Of course,” Isolde chuckled. “You are his sworn brother. Naturally, you wouldn’t say anything bad about him.”

“He was overly sheltered by Matilda,” Oliver admitted. “If he had been sent to the battlefield earlier, he…”

“He will go to the battlefield,” Isolde stated with absolute certainty.

The truth was, William had always wanted to go to war. In her past life, after marrying him, he had spoken about it repeatedly—his desire to prove himself in battle. But he had never truly understood what war entailed. The first time he marched to the front, she had felt uneasy and followed him. And just as she feared—he was utterly helpless. When the chaos erupted, he panicked, stumbling backward, retreating at every turn. But with her help, he managed to kill a few enemy soldiers. It was a small victory, but when he returned to Argentum, he was commended for it. The praise inflated his ego, and he basked in the glory, utterly pleased with himself.

Oliver, casually picking at his food, glanced up. “And how do you know he’ll go to war?”

“I’m just guessing,” Isolde smiled. “Enough about that—let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

As they ate, they discovered something unexpected. They both ate quickly—like soldiers pressed for time, devouring their meal as if a battle awaited them. In just the span of a single cup of coffee, they had both finished. Almost simultaneously, they set down their forks.

Oliver smirked. “You eat fast.”

Isolde wiped her mouth. “It’s a habit.”

She gestured for Helena to clear the plates and bring fresh coffee.

As they sipped in silence, both gazed out at the mountains. The night was tranquil, the air crisp and sweet with the scent of grass and wood. The moon had risen, its glow casting shadows over the peaks, making them look like sleeping beasts. The stars were bright, scattered across the sky in a dazzling display. Isolde couldn’t remember the last time she had simply sat still and looked at the stars. The quiet hum of insects filled the night, amplifying the stillness. Then, Oliver’s voice broke the silence.

“Your foot,” he said. “Is it alright?” The fire had dimmed, casting a softer glow over his face.

Isolde lowered her gaze. “It’s fine.”

“Who hurt you?”

She said nothing, idly swatting away a mosquito with the end of her whip.

It was Helena who answered. “It was Geoffrey,” she said in a hushed voice.

A dangerous heat flared in Oliver’s chest. He knew what it was like to grow up without a mother’s protection—to struggle, to fight for survival in a household that didn’t care. And Geoffrey, instead of shielding his daughter, had only made her life harder. He thought of all she had suffered: the betrayals, the abandonment, the schemes against her. And yet, she remained unyielding. Before he even realized it, the words were out of his mouth.

“If you won’t marry into the Valen family,” Oliver said, his voice calm but firm, “then would you consider marrying into the Langley family instead?”