CHAPTER 111: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND ELEVEN

The kitchen, usually a place of loud, chaotic energy, filled with the shouting of cooks and the clattering of pans, was silent for the past one hour. The head chef and the kitchen maids stood by the walls, watching with wide, nervous eyes.

In the center of the room, standing over a bubbling pot, was the Grand Duchess herself.

Marissa had been there for sixty minutes. She had tied a simple white apron over her expensive silk dress. Her face was flushed from the heat of the stove, and a few strands of hair had escaped her pins, framing her face. She stirred the vegetable soup slowly, her movements rhythmic and hypnotic. She wasn’t just cooking; she was guarding.

She dipped a ladle into the pot, lifting the golden broth to check the consistency. It smelled rich and savory, a scent that should have been comforting, but to Marissa, it smelled like danger.

She poured the soup carefully into a fine porcelain bowl with a matching lid.

Lily, who had been standing guard by the ingredients like a soldier, stepped up to her side. She looked at the soup, then at her mistress, her face twisted in frustration.

"Your Grace," Lily whispered, her voice low so the other servants wouldn’t hear. "You have personally watched this soup for almost an hour. You chopped the vegetables yourself. You boiled the water yourself." She shook her head. "The Second Lady is deliberately making things difficult. She treats you like a servant, demanding you cook for her just because she is pregnant."

Marissa picked up a clean spoon. She stirred the soup one last time, watching the steam rise.

"It is not about servitude, Lily. It is about survival," Marissa spoke, her voice calm but hard. "Now the whole estate knows I am preparing soup for her. Ashlyn made sure of that at lunch."

She tapped the spoon on the edge of the bowl.

"If I let a maid cook it, and Ashlyn gets a stomach ache later, who will she blame? Me. If she feels dizzy? Me. If anything goes wrong with that child, she will use it to cause trouble and frame me for harming the baby."

She placed the heavy ceramic lid on the bowl, sealing it.

"So, I must oversee this personally. From the vegetable garden to her lips, no one else touches this."

She wiped her hands on a towel and turned to Lily. Her expression shifted from the careful cook to the calculating mistress of the house.

"Lily."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

Marissa leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.

"Ashlyn’s pregnancy," she said. "It is too convenient. It happened just as Carlos needed money. Just as she needed a shield."

Marissa’s eyes narrowed.

"Find out exactly when she got pregnant. Find out which doctor confirmed it. Was it the family doctor? Or an outsider? I need every detail. I need to know if the dates align perfectly, or if there is a discrepancy."

Lily’s eyes widened in understanding. She curtsied deeply. "Yes, Your Grace. I will look into it immediately."

Lily took the dirty towels and moved to the back of the kitchen. Marissa took a deep breath. She picked up the heavy silver tray with the soup bowl on it. She turned toward the exit.

And she stopped.

Leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, looking completely out of place in his fine velvet coat and tall boots, was Derek.

He was watching her. There was a look on his face she hadn’t seen before—a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity.

"I never knew my Duchess was so skilled," he said, his voice smooth.

He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. His steps were slow, confident. The kitchen staff hurriedly bowed and scrambled out of the back door, sensing that the Grand Duke wanted privacy with his wife.

Derek stopped when he was right in front of her. He looked at the tray in her hands.

"What a pleasant surprise," he said, reaching out a hand as if to lift the lid of the bowl. "Is this for me?"

Marissa didn’t flinch. She simply turned her body, maneuvering the tray smoothly away from his reaching hand. She set it down on a nearby prep table with a soft clank.

She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Has the Grand Duke nothing better to do than make sarcastic remarks in the kitchen?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Derek smiled. It wasn’t his usual mocking smirk. It was softer. He put his hands behind his back, looking a bit like a boy caught stealing sweets.

"Grandmother insisted I come find you," he admitted. His voice dropped, becoming lower, more intimate. "She is in a... mood."

"A mood?"

"She is saying Carlos has already given her a great-grandchild," Derek said, rolling his eyes slightly towards the ceiling. "She spent twenty minutes lecturing me. She says we are falling behind. She says we should try harder."

Marissa blinked. The directness of the Dowager was always startling.

"Well," Marissa said, her mind working quickly. "Perhaps you could do me a favor. To stop her nagging."

"What favor?"

"Tell Grandmother you are infertile."

It was Derek’s turn to blink. He stared at her, his mouth opening slightly. He looked offended, shocked, and amused all at once.

"Infertile?" he repeated.

"Yes," Marissa said, her face perfectly serious. "It would take the pressure off me. She would stop asking."

Derek let out a short, incredulous laugh. He stepped closer to her.

"Who... who said I didn’t try that?" he stammered.

Marissa raised a brow. "You actually told her that?"

"I tried!" Derek exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "I told her years ago that I might have... issues. To get her off my back about marriage."

He shook his head, a look of trauma on his face.

"But Grandmother..." he said.

He suddenly hunched his shoulders, mimicking the Dowager’s posture. He made his voice crack and wobble, imitating Beatrice perfectly.

"...She hit me with her cane and said, ’Derek! How can you be infertile? You are a Thompson! Nonsense! Marissa knows medicine. Have her treat you! This illness must be cured immediately! Even if you have to drink ten gallons of tonic a day!’"

He straightened up, looking at Marissa with a pained expression.

"She threatened to feed me deer antler soup for a month."

Marissa stared at him for a second. The image of the terrifying, dignified Grand Duke being chased by his grandmother with a bowl of deer antler soup was too much.

She laughed.

It wasn’t a polite chuckle. It was a real, unguarded, belly laugh. Her head threw back, and the sound rang through the empty kitchen, bouncing off the copper pots. It was a bright, happy sound.

Derek watched her. The smile on his face faded, replaced by a look of intense focus. He watched her throat move as she laughed. He watched her eyes crinkle. He felt that strange, magnetic pull in his chest again—the same one from the carriage, the same one from the bath.

It took some seconds before her laughter subsided. She wiped a tear from her eye, still smiling.

"Seems treatment is indeed needed," she teased, her voice light. "If Grandmother thinks you are sick, I must do my duty as a doctor."

Derek didn’t laugh this time.

He stepped forward. He closed the remaining distance between them.

He reached out and wrapped one arm around her waist. He pulled her closer, until her body bumped gently against his. The laughter died in Marissa’s throat. Her breath hitched.

They were inches apart. The smell of the soup was gone, replaced by the scent of him—leather, soap, and the faint, masculine musk of his skin.

"Is that so?" he whispered.

He looked down at her. His eyes locked onto hers, dark and intense. The playfulness was still there, but underneath it was a hunger that made Marissa’s knees feel weak.

He lowered his head slowly. He gave her time to pull away. She didn’t. She stood there, her hands resting tentatively on his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt.

He leaned in. His gaze dropped to her lips. He tilted his head, closing the gap.

The air in the kitchen felt suddenly hot and heavy.

Marissa’s heart hammered against her ribs. She watched his lashes lower. She felt his warm breath on her mouth. He was going to kiss her. And this time, there was no drug, no acting, no audience.

Just as his lips were about to brush hers, her survival instinct kicked in. This was dangerous. Falling for him was dangerous.

"Seems I’ll start making tonics for you," she whispered, her voice breathless but sharp.

Derek paused, his lips hovering a millimeter from hers. "Hmm?"

"The bitter," she continued, "foul-smelling kind. Made of snake gall and earthworms. To cure your... condition."

Derek froze.

The romantic atmosphere shattered like glass.

He pulled his head back quickly, blinking. He looked at her innocent, smiling face.

"Snake gall?" he asked, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"And earthworms," she added cheerfully. "Grandmother’s orders."

Derek let go of her waist. He took two large steps back, creating a safe distance between them. He laughed, but it was a nervous, terrified sound.

"That’s... that’s going a bit far, don’t you think?" he asked, looking at her with wide eyes. "I am perfectly healthy. No need for that."

Marissa picked up the heavy silver tray from the table. She felt grounded again. She turned to him, flashing him a sweet, dangerous smile.

"Oh, Your Grace," she said, walking past him toward the door. "I love going that far for you."

She left him standing alone in the middle of the kitchen, looking confused, terrified, and hopelessly intrigued.