CHAPTER 31: CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The night was deep and still. A heavy silence had fallen over the Thompson estate. In his study, a vast, dark-wood-paneled room lit only by a single branch of candles and the glow of a dying fire, Derek sat behind his massive desk. He was not reading, nor was he drinking. He was staring at a map of the city, his mind miles away, his "skiver" persona laid aside like a coat.

A soft knock, barely a sound, broke the silence.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. It was far too late for a servant, and he was not expecting company. "Come in," he said, his voice flat.

The door opened, and Marissa walked in.

She was not the regal Duchess from the ancestral hall, nor the coldly furious wife from the courtyard. She was dressed in a simple, high-necked nightgown of white silk, a thin robe that did nothing to hide her nightgown, with a heavy cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders for warmth. Her long, dark, curly hair was unbound, tumbling over her shoulders, framing a face that was scrubbed clean of any artifice. As she stepped into the candlelight, Derek found his gaze fixed on a small, dark mole just under her right eye, a tiny, humanizing detail he had never noticed before.

Why am I concerning myself with that? he thought, annoyed at the distraction. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his expression hardening as he watched her.

She was carrying a small, lit lantern, which she placed on a side table, adding a warm, golden glow to the room. She did not look at him. She did not ask for permission. She walked directly to the crystal decanter on his sideboard, unstopped it, and poured a generous amount of dark red wine into a heavy glass.

She lifted the glass, swirled it, and took a small sip. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

"I am astonished," she said, her voice a low murmur in the quiet room. "You have actually managed to procure a bottle of wine that doesn’t taste like vinegar. I’m impressed."

It was a clear, polite insult, a backhanded swipe at the quality of his household.

Derek ignored it, his gaze cold. "Why are you here?" His voice laced with annoyance.

Marissa carried her glass over to his desk and, without invitation, sat in the large, leather chair opposite him. It was the chair reserved for his most important visitors, a seat of equal power. She took another slow, deliberate sip. "I came to invite you to fulfill your promise, Your Grace."

Derek scoffed, leaning back in his own chair and lacing his fingers together on the desk. "So, the time has finally come? You’ve decided what you want?"

"Mmm," she hummed, taking another sip. She set the glass down on his desk, the sound a soft click in the silence. "I want to hold the power of this family. The household authority. I want it."

Derek’s eyebrows shot up. He had expected a request for jewelry, for land, for a personal favor. This was something else entirely. He looked at her, truly surprised, and then he let out a short, dismissive laugh. "The household authority is determined by my grandmother. It is her sole right to bestow it. You have come to the wrong person."

Marissa swirled the remaining contents of her glass, her eyes fixed on the dark liquid. "I know who holds the power," she said softly. "You just need to cooperate. As for Grandmother, I will figure out a way."

"I thought you just wanted the position of the Grand Duke’s wife," he said, a note of grudging respect in his voice. "I didn’t expect you were so ambitious."

Marissa chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "This title, ’Grand Duchess’?" she said, as if it were a simple, functional object. "To me, it is just temporarily useful. Be rest assured, Your Grace," she lifted her eyes to meet his, "after one year, I will willingly divorce you."

The air left Derek’s lungs. His smug, calculating expression was wiped clean, replaced by a look of pure, blank shock. "Divorce?"

He quickly recovered, leaning back in his chair, a smug look returning, though it was now forced. "You went through all that trouble? The bargain for Senna’s life? The fight in the ancestral hall? All to get a title that you plan to just... give away?" He scoffed. "Are you really willing?"

"I have no feelings for you, Your Grace," Marissa said, her voice flat and honest. "You also feel the same way about me. I know that forced things are not sweet. It is a simple arrangement. You won’t lose out, either. In fact, if you ever find yourself in a bind and need my help, I will be sure to help you."

This time, Derek laughed. It was a loud, genuine, mocking laugh. Marissa watched him, a faint smile on her own lips, and joined him, her own laugh a soft, airy counterpoint to his. "You?" he finally said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Help me? That is truly absurd."

The smile on Marissa’s face did not waver, but her eyes turned cold. "Perhaps," she said, her voice still light. "But although the Thompson family has deep assets and a long history, you spend all your days at pleasure houses, neglecting your proper duties. This great foundation... in the future, I’m afraid, it cannot be maintained by you."

The laughter stopped. Derek’s expression snapped, the humor vanishing, replaced by a cold, stern look. "You think I can’t maintain the Thompson foundation?"

"I do," Marissa nodded simply.

The audacity, he thought, a pulse of real anger tightening his jaw. She was not just insulting his reputation; she was insulting his capability. She saw the "skiver" persona and, unlike everyone else, she was not charmed or intimidated by it. She was simply, and openly, unimpressed.

"You want a divorce, right?" he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Fine." He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He wanted this woman, this... this shrew who saw too much, out of his study. "I will have Ian draw up a divorce certificate first thing in The morning. Then you won’t be able to back out."

"That won’t be necessary," Marissa said. She stood up as well, a bright, happy smile on her face. From a pocket hidden in her thin robe, she produced two folded pieces of high-quality parchment.

Derek froze, his hand halfway to the bell he’d been about to ring for his guard. He stared at the papers. "Marissa," he said, his voice a low, disbelieving whisper, "you really came prepared."

Her smile was brilliant. "Men are unreliable, Your Grace," she said, her tone light and casual. "It is always better to be safe than sorry."

She dropped the papers on his desk and pushed them toward his side. He took one, his movements slow, almost dazed, and unfolded it. He read the neatly penned script. It was a perfectly legal, binding divorce agreement, citing mutual incompatibility, to be executed in precisely one year’s time.

"I have signed my copy already," she said, pointing to her elegant signature at the bottom. "It just needs your signature. And your seal."

Derek looked from the paper to her face. She was not bluffing. She was not scheming. This was an exit plan. This was an exchange. She wanted one year of power, and in return, she was offering him his freedom. It was the most bizarre, and most intriguing, bargain he had ever been offered.

With a heavy, resigned sigh, he picked up his pen, signed his name with a sharp, angry flourish, and then took the heavy Thompson seal, pressing it firmly into the warm wax at the bottom of both copies.

Marissa took her copy, folded it, and tucked it securely back into her robe. A look of genuine satisfaction was on her face. "Thank you, YourGrace. You have been most cooperative." She bowed, a simple, polite curtsy. "Have a good night."

She walked to the desk, picked up her half-empty wine glass, and gulped down the remaining contents in one go. She then retrieved her lantern from the side table, and, with a final, pleasant nod, she left the study, closing the door softly behind her, leaving him in the sudden, heavy silence.

Derek remained standing for a long time, the warmth from the fireplace on his back, the candlelight flickering on his desk. He stared at the closed door, his mind replaying the entire encounter. The insults, the ambition, the complete lack of fear. And the divorce papers. She had come tonight not to ask, but to close a deal.

He looked down at his own copy of the agreement, a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirring in his chest. It was not anger. It was not amusement. It was a genuine, unsettling curiosity.

"What kind of a woman," he asked the empty room, "are you, Marissa Austen?"