CHAPTER 150: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FIFTY

The private chambers of Lady Jane were dark, lit only by a single candle flickering on a small table. But the room was not empty.

Jane entered, closing the door softly behind her. She didn’t look at the figure standing in the shadows by the wardrobe. She walked straight to the window, pulling the heavy drapes shut to ensure no one could see in.

"You know what to do, right?" Jane asked, her voice low and devoid of warmth.

The figure stepped forward slightly, dressed in the simple clothes of a palace servant, their eyes were too sharp, their hands too callous for serving wine. They nodded once, a silent affirmation.

Jane turned to face the unknown person. Her face was hard in the candlelight.

"Make sure to tarnish her reputation," Jane ordered. " She would be gone from the Golden Swan tomorrow as she would be celebrating with the Grand Duke. Use her absence to strike."

She took a step closer, her eyes glittering.

"And make sure it leads to her imprisonment," she added. "Scandal is not enough. I want her removed. I want her in a cell where no one, not even the Grand Duke, can reach her."

The figure shifted their weight. "It will be risky, My Lady."

"That is why you must be careful," Jane snapped. "Don’t you want revenge for what happened to you? If this doesn’t go as planned... if you are caught..."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper.

"I will expose you to the King," she threatened. "I will tell him about the secret you have been hiding for twenty five years of your life. I will tell him everything. You will be executed."

The figure flinched. Fear flickered in their eyes.

They knew she meant it.

The figure nodded again, deeper this time. "It will be done."

"Good," Jane said. "Now go."

The figure slipped out of the room, disappearing into the labyrinth of the palace.

Jane walked to her vanity table. She sat down, her red silk dress pooling around her. She began to remove the gold pins from her hair, pulling them out one by one with sharp, precise movements. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She smiled. It was a cold, satisfied smile.

"Then," she whispered to her reflection, "what belongs to me will remain mine."

She imagined Marissa in chains. She imagined Liam’s cold eyes turning back to her, seeing her value, seeing her loyalty.

She picked up a brush and began to stroke her hair, the rhythmic motion soothing her ambition.

~ ••••• ~

Meanwhile, at the Thompson estate, the night was quiet, but Derek found no peace.

He was in his study. The candles had burned low, wax dripping onto the silver holders. He sat at his massive desk, but he wasn’t looking at maps or ledgers.

He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard Prince Liam’s voice.

"I’ll dedicate a wreath to you in my dear cousin’s stead. It would look grand if you could wear a wreath granted by the Crown Prince."

The words were a challenge. A claim. Liam had tried to mark Marissa as his own, right in front of Derek.

Derek’s hand clenched into a fist on the table.

"Over my dead body," he muttered.

He looked down at the desk. It was covered in flowers.

Fresh, vibrant flowers. Roses, lilies, jasmine, and baby’s breath. Their scent filled the room, overpowering the smell of old paper and ink.

He had stolen them.

Earlier that evening, after bringing Marissa home, he had snuck into her private garden. He had felt like a thief in his own house, cutting the blooms she had tended so carefully.

"She is sure to kill me when she finds out,"

Derek thought, a small, rueful smile touching his lips. "She loves those roses."

But he had to do it. He had to replace Liam’s imaginary wreath with a real one. A better one.

He picked up a long, flexible vine of jasmine. He wasn’t a florist. His hands were made for swords, for reins, for war. They were large and calloused, clumsy with the delicate stems.

He tried to twist the vine into a circle. It snapped.

"Dammit," Derek cursed softly.

He grabbed another vine. He was more careful this time. He wove it slowly, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He looked as serious as if he were planning a battle strategy.

He picked up a red rose. He carefully stripped the lower leaves. He tried to tuck it into the vine.

Prick.

A sharp pain shot through his finger. A thorn had pierced his skin.

He pulled his hand back, shaking it. A drop of blood welled up on his fingertip.

He looked at the blood. He didn’t care.

He wiped his finger on his trousers and went back to work.

He continued. He worked through the night. The moon moved across the sky, casting shifting shadows on the walls. The candles burned down to nubs.

He wove white lilies for purity. He added red roses for passion. He tucked in sprigs of baby’s breath for softness.

He restarted three times. The first one was too loose. The second one was lopsided.

But he didn’t stop. He was determined.

By the time the first grey light of dawn began to creep through the window, he was finished.

He held it up.

It was a wreath. It was thick and lush, a circle of vibrant color and sweet scent. It wasn’t perfect—a few stems stuck out at odd angles, and there was a smudge of dirt on one of the white petals—but it was solid.

Derek looked at it. He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, but it was matched by a deep sense of satisfaction.

"There," he whispered.

He imagined placing it on Marissa’s head. He imagined her surprise. He imagined her smile, the real one.

He set the wreath down gently on the desk, right next to the box with the fan.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. His finger still stung from the thorn.

He looked out the window at the rising sun.

"Let Liam try," Derek thought, closing his eyes for a moment. "Let him try to take her."

He touched the petals of the wreath.

"She is mine."