CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

The suggestion was not a request; it was a judgment. An exile cloaked in the soft, respectable language of a prayer vigil.

Marissa’s head was still bowed, the heavy weight of Derek’s coat a surprising, warm burden on her shoulders. A small, bitter chuckle escaped her lips, a sound of pure, cold irony in the grim, candle-lit room. She looked up, her gaze bypassing the victorious Lorena, and settled on the Dowager Duchess.

"No matter how honored the title of Grand Duchess is," she said, her voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the room, "it seems that to the Thompson family, I am still an outsider."

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell. Beatrice had the grace to look pained, her eyes faltering. Lorena, still kneeling, kept her head bowed to hide the triumphant smirk she could no longer contain.

"But," Marissa continued, her voice hardening with a resolve that was not obedience, but a strategic choice, "if this is Grandmother’s will, then I will go."

Derek, who had been standing beside her looked at her in open disbelief. "Marissa," he said, his voice a low, incredulous murmur meant only for her. "Where did your sharp, shrewish tongue go? Now, after all this, you are suddenly so obedient?"

She turned her head to look at him, her expression unreadable. "Ryan calls me ’Mother’," she said simply, as if that explained everything. "His safety is my first concern. I must think of him." Her gaze then shifted, moving past him to lock onto Lorena, who was still artfully clinging to Beatrice’s side. Marissa’s eyes were as cold and sharp as newly broken ice. "But I believe in one thing. Falsehood cannot become the truth. I am neither indebted to anyone in this house, nor am I afraid of their tricks.

She gave a final, stiff curtsy to the Dowager Duchess. Then, with a slow movement, she shrugged off Derek’s heavy coat, the warmth vanishing as she handed it back to him. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, her back straight, her head held high, a queen accepting a temporary, tactical exile.

Within a few hours, the main courtyard was filled with the sounds of a hasty departure. A simple, sturdy carriage, not the grand ducal coach, was being prepared. A few modest chests were loaded—not the gifts of a visiting duchess, but the luggage of a woman being sent away.

Marissa walked out of the main entrance, changed into a simple, dark wool traveling dress. Her face was calm, her composure absolute. Lily followed, her eyes red and swollen from weeping. A footman opened the carriage door, and Marissa placed one foot on the step.

"Sister."

The voice, bright and sickly sweet, called out from across the courtyard. Marissa paused but did not turn.

Ashlyn approached, fanning herself with a delicate, painted fan, a picture of leisurely concern. She was dressed in a beautiful, sunny-yellow gown, her happiness a stark, cruel contrast to the grim departure.

"I just heard the dreadful news," Ashlyn said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "The old family temple is so far away, in the mountains. I hear it is very austere. So terribly cold and lonely at this time of year." She clucked her tongue in pity. "You must take such good care of yourself on your journey, sister."

Marissa finally turned. Her eyes, cold and clear, met Ashlyn’s. "Ashlyn," she said, her voice flat. "You should first worry about yourself. And your husband."

Without another word, she turned her back on her sister’s stunned, faltering smile and entered the carriage. Lily scrambled in after her, and the footman pulled the door shut with a solid, final thud.

Ashlyn stood alone in the courtyard, her smile frozen on her face. As the carriage began to roll away, crunching on the gravel, her smile slowly twisted into something ugly and triumphant.

Marissa, your arrogance won’t last you long, she thought, her heart singing with a vicious glee. The temple is just the beginning. This time, you will not return.

From the shadows of the grand entrance hall, Derek watched the carriage grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared down the long, tree-lined drive. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight. He was annoyed. Annoyed at his grandmother’s blind superstition, annoyed at Lorena’s obvious, clumsy scheming, and, most of all, annoyed at Marissa’s sudden, saintly acceptance of her own exile. He had expected her to fight, to unleash the sharp-tongued shrew he was just beginning to find intriguing. Her quiet surrender felt like a betrayal of its own.

"Your Grace?"

He turned. A small, nervous woman in the uniform of the dance establishment’s staff was bowing deeply. "The celebration at the establishment opens today, Your Grace. Miss Senna asked me to personally invite you. She is so looking forward to seeing you." The woman held out a beautiful, rose-scented invitation on a small silver tray.

Derek did not even look at it. His gaze was still fixed on the empty road where Marissa’s carriage had been. "Ah," he said, his voice flat and distant. "Ian has already gone ahead with the gifts on my behalf." He turned his cold, distracted gaze on the servant. "Please tell Miss Senna I have... matters... to handle today. I will go another day."

He turned and went back inside, leaving the servant standing awkwardly on the steps, the invitation still in her outstretched hand.

His anger, unfocused and simmering, needed a target. He knew where to find one. He strode through the quiet halls of the estate, his boots loud on the marble floors, making his way to the ancestral hall.

He found her there, just as he expected. Beatrice was kneeling on a prayer cushion before the silent, carved tablets, her back rigid. The air was thick with the smoke of sandalwood incense.

"Grandmother."

Beatrice finished her prayer, her voice a low, frail murmur. Derek stepped forward, offering his arm to help her rise. She took it, her hand trembling slightly, not from fear, but from age and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

"You really allowed Marissa to go to the temple?" he asked, his voice a low, controlled reprimand.

He helped her to her feet and, moving at her slow pace, led her out of the cold, dark hall and into the relative warmth of the nearby drawing room. He guided her to her favorite high-backed chair by the empty fireplace.

She settled into the cushions and looked up at him. "Just a few days ago, you were furious with me because I was angry about that dancer. You defended her. Now, in just two days, you are beginning to favor Marissa? You defend this new wife with the same passion."

Derek sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I have no personal interest in her," he said, though it was true. "But matters must be judged fairly. That... exorcist... was a fraud. Lorena’s plan was obvious. And you, Grandmother, a woman who has managed this family for forty years, you played right into their hands."

Beatrice’s expression hardened. "This concerns Ryan," she said, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "It concerns Theodore’s only son."

At the mention of his brother’s name, the anger in Derek’s face faltered, replaced by a shadow of an old, deep grief.

"I know what you think of my beliefs, Derek," Beatrice continued, her voice firm. "You think I am a foolish, superstitious old woman. But I have seen things you have not. I have lived through tragedies you have only read about. That boy is the last living link to his father."

Her gaze was unshakeable. "I cannot, I will not, afford to make any mistakes when it comes to his life. Whether the threat is a spirit, or a person, it must be removed. Marissa is strong. She will endure a few weeks of prayer at the temple. Ryan... Ryan is fragile."

She looked into her grandson’s eyes, her own filled with an iron resolve. "I made the only choice I could."