CHAPTER 147: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FORTY SEVEN

The hand of the Crown Prince was cold, a clammy weight on Marissa’s knuckles. The request to dance was not an invitation; it was a command, wrapped in velvet and steel.

Marissa knew it. Jane knew it. And Derek, watching from across the room, his fists clenched, knew it.

Marissa’s mind raced. If she danced with him, she was entering the lion’s den. If she refused, she was insulting the future King. But there was a third path—the path of the weak, the path of the "fragile" woman Jane had accused her of being.

She slowly, deliberately, pulled her hand back from Liam’s grasp. She did not snatch it. She withdrew it as if her strength had failed her. She raised her other hand to her temple, pressing her fingers against her skin as if fighting a sudden headache.

"Apologies, Your Highness," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was polite but firm. "But I am afraid I am not feeling very well at the moment. The heat... the wine... which is why I have been sitting here all evening."

She looked at Jane. Jane was trying to mask her jealousy, but her eyes were narrowed slits of fury. Liam had ignored her completely to pursue another man’s wife.

Marissa gestured weakly to Jane. "Perhaps Lady Jane..."

"You simply cannot refuse a request from His Highness..." Jane snapped, her jealousy making her forget her manners. She wanted Marissa to dance, to be exposed, to be taken by the Prince so she could be destroyed later.

"Duchess Marissa is ill," Liam interrupted, cutting Jane off without even looking at her. His voice was smooth, but his eyes remained fixed on Marissa, analyzing her "illness" with a cold, predatory intelligence.

He smiled. It was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I can’t possibly trouble an ill woman," he said. He took a step back, respecting the social boundary she had erected, but not retreating from the hunt.

"However," Liam continued, his voice lowering to an intimate murmur that excluded everyone else. "We have the follow-up celebration here at the palace tomorrow. The main festival continues. Why don’t you come celebrate with the Royal Family?"

Marissa stiffened. He was inviting her back. Alone. Or at least, without the protection of the crowd.

"Derek, unfortunately, doesn’t like things like this," Liam said, glancing dismissively over his shoulder at his cousin. "He finds court life... boring. So I’ll dedicate a wreath to you in my dear cousin’s stead."

Marissa’s breath hitched. A wreath. In the court’s language of flowers and favors, a wreath from the Crown Prince was a public declaration of favor. It was a mark.

"It would look grand," Liam purred, "if you could wear a wreath granted by the Crown Prince. Since my wife, the Crown Princess, isn’t around to wear one."

The implication was staggering. He was offering her the place of the Crown Princess, symbolically. He was testing her ambition. He was testing her loyalty.

"Of course," Marissa thought, her mind cold with realization. "With just a little bit of exaggeration, he could easily try to assert a claim on me. If I accept the wreath, I accept his favor. I become his property in the eyes of the court. And Derek becomes a cuckold."

It was a brilliant, poisonous trap.

She opened her mouth to refuse, to invent another illness, another excuse.

"Marissa."

The voice cut through the tension like a blade. It was clear. It was strong. It was devoid of the slurred, drunken act Derek had been performing all night.

All three of them—Marissa, Liam, and Jane—turned.

Derek was approaching. He was not stumbling. He was not laughing. He walked with the long, purposeful strides of a soldier. His face was set in stone, his eyes dark and burning with a protective fire. He ignored the Prince. He ignored Jane. He looked only at his wife.

He stopped in front of her. He didn’t bow to Liam. He didn’t ask for permission.

Marissa didn’t wait. She moved.

She went to him. She didn’t walk; she almost ran the few steps. She threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest, hugging him tightly. It was a desperate embrace, a physical barrier between her and the Prince.

"Derek," she whispered into his coat, her voice trembling slightly. "I want to go home."

Derek’s arms came around her instantly, wrapping her in a warm, solid shield. He held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. He looked over her at Liam. His gaze was a direct challenge.

He nodded once to Marissa.

"We are leaving," he said.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her face, checking her. Then, he took her hand. He didn’t just hold it; he intertwined his fingers with hers, locking them together in a knot that said, She is mine.

He led her away from the table, away from the Prince, and toward the dais where the King sat.

Liam watched them go. His smile vanished. His face became a mask of cold, calculating fury. He had been dismissed. By both of them.

Derek reached the throne. He bowed, but he kept Marissa’s hand in his.

"Your Majesty," Derek said, his voice respectful but firm. "I must ask for permission to leave early. My wife... Marissa is a bit unwell. The excitement has been too much."

King Alistair looked down at them. He saw the way they stood together. He saw the strength in Derek’s posture, a strength he hadn’t seen in years.

The King smiled, a tired, knowing smile.

"Go, nephew," the King said. "Take care of her."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Make sure you celebrate in Denver tomorrow," the King added. "Show your people that the Thompson line is strong."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Derek replied. "We will."

Derek turned. He led Marissa back through the crowd. They had to pass Liam to get to the exit.

Derek didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He walked past the Prince as if he were a statue.

He gave a curt, almost insulting nod.

"Your Highness," Derek said, his voice flat.

He didn’t wait for a response. He swept Marissa past the Prince, past the jealous mistress, past the whispering court, and out the grand double doors.

They walked down the marble steps into the cool night air. The carriage was waiting.

Derek opened the door himself. He helped Marissa in, his hand gentle on her back. He climbed in after her and slammed the door shut.

"Home," he ordered the driver. "Fast."

The carriage lurched forward, leaving the palace and the Prince behind.

Inside, the darkness was a relief. Marissa leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She felt Derek’s hand find hers again in the dark. He squeezed it.

"You were brave," Derek said quietly.

Marissa opened her eyes. She looked at him.

"I was terrified," she admitted.

Derek shook his head. "No. You were perfect."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, erasing the memory of Liam’s cold touch.

"He won’t stop," Marissa whispered. "The wreath... the invitation..."

"I know," Derek said. His eyes were hard. "But tomorrow, we will be in Denver. In our territory. And we will go to the market to celebrate the festival, together."

Marissa nodded.