CHAPTER 36: CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Derek stood before his grandmother, his face a mask of understanding and at the same time,frustration. He had laid out the logic, the clear evidence of a conspiracy, but it had all shattered against the unyielding wall of her fear.

"But Grandmother," he started again, his voice tight with the effort of holding his temper, "you must see reason. This is ..."

Beatrice raised a thin, age-spotted hand, a gesture that was as soft as a falling leaf and as final as a closing door. "That is enough, Derek," she said, her voice frail but absolute. "There will be no more discussion on this matter. My decision is made."

Derek’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to shout, to shake the superstitious fear from her. But he was the Grand Duke, and she was the matriarch. He saw the iron resolve in her old, tired eyes, a resolve born not of stubbornness, but of a deep, paralyzing fear for her great-grandson. He could not break through it. With a long, frustrated sigh, he gave a stiff, formal bow and left her alone in the silent, oppressive drawing room.

Miles away, in a newly fashionable part of the city, the grand dance establishment was a beacon of light and life. Music, laughter, and the clinking of wine glasses spilled from its open doors into the cool night air. Inside, the hall was a sea of colorful silks and glittering jewels, a vibrant tapestry of the capital’s high society.

Senna, the new owner, was the radiant center of it all. Dressed in a breathtaking gown of shimmering gold, she moved through the crowd with a dancer’s effortless grace, a perfect smile on her lips, a charming word for every guest. The opening was a spectacular success. The establishment was the talk of the town, and she was its brilliant, envied star.

But with every smile, with every polite nod, her eyes were searching. Her gaze flickered constantly towards the entrance, a knot of anxious anticipation tightening in her chest. He had promised. He had given her this entire world. Surely, he would come to celebrate it with her.

As the hours passed, the knot of anticipation slowly, painfully, transformed into one of dread. The servant she had sent to the Thompson estate had returned, her face carefully blank. Senna, excusing herself from a group of fawning admirers, retreated to her new private study. She had imagined Derek would be waiting for her there, a surprise for the end of the night.

Instead, she was met with a mountain of gifts. On her desk sat a small , velvet-lined chest housing an emerald, and beside it, a deed for a small manor by the sea. The servant who had followed her in curtsied deeply.

"These are the gifts His Grace sent his guard to deliver, Miss Senna," the servant said, her voice a respectful murmur. "He said he had an urgent matter to attend to and would not be able to come this evening."

The beautiful, perfect smile on Senna’s face did not waver, but the light in her eyes died. "Is that so?" she asked, her voice a little too bright, a little too brittle.

"Yes, miss," the servant replied, oblivious to the heartbreak behind the mask. "I... I heard his new wife had an unfortunate incident this morning."

"You may go," Senna said, her voice now flat. The servant curtsied and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Senna stood alone in the magnificent room, surrounded by a fortune in gifts. She reached out, her fingers tracing the cold, hard facets of the emerald. They were beautiful. They were a declaration of his favor, a symbol of her security. But they were not him.

"It is not the gifts I want," she whispered to the silent, empty room. "It is your presence I crave."

~ ••••• ~

Two long nights had passed since Marissa’s departure. The Thompson estate was quiet, an unnatural stillness having fallen over the household. In the dimly lit bedchamber of the young master, Lorena sat slumped in a chair beside Ryan’s bed, her head nodding with exhaustion.

For two days and two nights, she had kept a constant, desperate vigil, her heart a cold, heavy stone of fear.

A series of small, wet coughs broke the silence, jolting her awake. She shot to her feet, her eyes wide with alarm. Ryan was stirring, his small body trembling. She rushed to his side, her hand going to his forehead. It was cold, clammy.

And then she saw it. A dark, crimson stain was spreading on the white linen of his pillowcase. He coughed again, a weak, ragged sound, and a trickle of fresh blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

"Ryan? Ryan!" she cried, her voice a frantic whisper. She gently shook his small, frail shoulder. "Ryan, wake up!"

Her mind was a chaotic series of terror. The exorcist. The potion he had secretly given her to administer, the one that was supposed to create the illusion of a spiritual illness. "It will wear off in a few days," he had promised her. "The boy will be weak, but unharmed."

Why is it getting worse? she thought, panic seizing her. This was not part of the plan.

"Ryan, my love, please wake up," she begged, her voice breaking into a sob.

He coughed one last time, a small, final shudder running through his body. And then, he stopped. He stopped coughing. He stopped moving. His chest, which had been rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths, was suddenly, terribly still.

Lorena froze, her hand hovering over his small, silent form. The world seemed to dissolve into a roaring, colorless void. No. It couldn’t be. She was just overthinking things. She was tired, panicked. He was just sleeping deeply.

She needed to be sure.

With a hand that trembled so violently she could barely control it, she slowly, tentatively, reached out and placed a single finger under Ryan’s small, still nose, waiting to feel the faint, warm puff of his breath.

Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing.

The truth crashed down on her with the force of a blow, shattering her world into a million irreparable pieces. The plan, her clever, vicious scheme to ruin Marissa, had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong. The child she had raised, the only person in the world she had truly, fiercely loved, was gone.

She stumbled back from the bed, her legs giving way beneath her. She fell to the floor in a heap, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the scream that was clawing its way up her throat. Her eyes, wide with a horror beyond comprehension, were fixed on the small, silent body in the bed.

"He’s dead," she whispered, the words a raw, ragged sound in the absolute, final silence of the room. "He’s dead."