CHAPTER 55: CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

The sun had long since set, dragging its last rays of light from the high, stained-glass windows of the ancestral hall. The vast room was now a cavern of shadows, the only light a few flickering candles on the main altar. They did little to pierce the gloom, but they cast a pale, ghostly light on the rows and rows of silent, carved ancestral tablets. They felt like silent judges, watching Marissa as she knelt, alone, in the center of the vast, empty room.

Hours had passed. Her back was a column of fire, her shoulders ached, and her knees, even with the small, velvet cushion Beatrice had quietly ordered a maid to give her, were numb and screaming in protest. But she did not move. She knelt, as she had been ordered, her head high, her expression calm. Her mind was a whirlwind of calculations, replaying every move, every word of Ashlyn’s complex, venomous trap.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the heavy, furious footsteps echoing in the marble hall until they were almost upon her. The great doors of the hall were thrown open with a crash, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the sacred, silent space.

Derek stood there, a tall, dark silhouette against the torchlight of the hall. He was a storm in human form, his face filled with a cold, white-hot fury.

"You did nothing wrong, so why are you kneeling?"

His voice was a low, angry growl, but the words themselves were not an accusation. They were a statement of fact. Marissa’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with a shock so profound it momentarily took her breath. She had expected an interrogation, a trial, a cold judgment. She had not expected this. She had not expected trust.

He strode across the room, his long, angry footsteps eating up the distance between them. He stopped directly in front of her, his shadow falling over her, blocking out the dim candlelight. He looked down at her, at her pale, proud, and exhausted face. The fury in his own expression softened, just for a moment, into something else, something complex and fiercely protective.

He held out his hand.

"Stand up," he said. And his voice, so at odds with the anger in his posture, was soft.

Marissa stared at his outstretched hand, at the long, strong fingers, at the calloused palm. She had fought this man, she had bargained with him, she had drugged him and tied him up. And now, he was the only person in this entire, cursed estate who had not even bothered to ask, "Did you do it?"

"You... you didn’t even ask me anything," she whispered, her voice rough from hours of silence.

"I don’t need to," he said, his voice still soft, but with an edge of his familiar impatience. He reached down, and his hand closed around her arm, his grip firm but gentle. He pulled her to her feet. "You are upright. You are proud. You would never use such nasty, back-stabbing tricks."

She stood, her legs so numb they felt like wood, threatening to buckle beneath her. She winced, leaning against the cushion stand for support as she bent to lightly hit her thighs and calves, trying to force the blood to flow. The sharp, tingling pins and needles were an agonizing, welcome relief.

"Such an elaborate and vicious plot," Derek said, his voice turning cold again as he began to pace in front of the altar. "A dead body, a witness, physical evidence that is both true and a lie. This could never have been thought of by a simple maid like Nora."

"From the ruined gift, to framing me for Lorena’s murder," Marissa said, her own voice regaining its strength as the blood returned to her legs. "If I am not mistaken, these were all plotted, step by step, by Ashlyn."

Derek stopped pacing. "It was her?" he asked. It wasn’t a question of surprise, but of dark confirmation. "She dared to lay her hands on you? To frame you for murder?"

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest. He looked at the torn dress, which was still on a table, a piece of condemning evidence. "Even she couldn’t make it flawless. It’s too perfect. Too neat."

He looked back at Marissa, his mind made up. "I’ll take you away from here first. I can send you to the northern estate where Ryan is going. You’ll be safe there, and we can plan properly from a distance."

He grabbed her hand, ready to pull her from the room.

"No!"

She pulled her hand from his grasp, the sudden, sharp refusal stopping him cold.

He stared at her, confused.

"I can’t," she said, her voice firm.

"Grandmother ordered me confined here, to pray. If I flee in the middle of the night, it would be a confession of guilt. It would be a disobedience to my elders that I could never undo." She met his angry, impatient gaze, her own clear and unyielding. "This matter... I will have to trouble you for your help, Your Grace. But I will not run, I’m not a coward."

Derek looked at her, at this small, unbending woman who refused to be saved, who would rather stand and fight in the heart of the enemy’s camp. His frustration was so sharp it was almost admiration. "Fine," he snapped. "But the evidence is against you. Your earring. Your dress. You have no way to fight that."

"Physical evidence can be faked," Marissa said, her voice dropping as she pieced it all together. "The key is still the witness. Nora is the only thing holding Ashlyn’s entire story together."

Derek’s eyes narrowed as he followed her logic. "A witness who has already confessed to one crime, and is now accusing a Duchess of another. A witness who is a complete liability." He looked at Marissa, and a new, terrible, shared understanding passed between them.

"From what I know of Ashlyn," Marissa said, her voice a cold, grim whisper, "she wouldn’t leave such a dangerous, loose handle as Nora alive for long."

Derek nodded once, his face grim. The same, dark thought had just crossed his mind. Ashlyn would silence her. Permanently. And with Nora’s death, her "dying testimony" would be sealed, and Marissa would be framed forever.

He didn’t say another word. He turned and strode from the ancestral hall, his footsteps no longer angry, but urgent, purposeful. He had to get to Nora. He had to secure the witness.

~ ••••• ~

In a small, cold, and windowless cell in the deepest, most secure part of the servants’ quarters, Nora was trembling in fear. She was tied securely to a wooden stool, a "precaution," she had been told, to stop her from escaping.

She was terrified. She had done exactly as Lady Ashlyn had ordered. She had played her part. But the way the Grand Duchess had looked at her, the way the Dowager had looked at her... she knew things won’t end well for her.

CLICK.

SCRAPE.

The sound of a key turning in the heavy iron lock made her stop breathing. Her head, which had been bowed in terror, snapped up. It was the middle of the night. No one was supposed to be here. Is it a guard? Had the Dowager sent for her?

The heavy door creaked open, revealing a tall, cloaked figure, backlit by the single, dim torch in the corridor. The figure was holding a small, covered lantern.

Nora’s body went rigid. Her eyes, wide and white in the dimness, fixed on the intruder.

The figure stepped inside and quietly, carefully, closed the heavy door. The lock was reset. They were alone.

The figure set the lantern on the floor and pulled back the hood of the cloak. It was Ashlyn. Her face was calm, serene, her lips curved in a small, gentle smile.

Nora, who was bound to the stool, began to shake violently. She tried to scream, but her throat was paralyzed with a terror so profound that only a small, strangled whimper came out. She shook her head, her matted hair flying, her eyes wide and pleading.

"Please," she mouthed, the word a silent, desperate prayer. "Please, don’t kill me."

Ashlyn’s smile did not waver. She said nothing. She simply reached into the deep folds of her cloak and, with a slow, movement, she pulled out a long, thin, glittering object.

It was a knife.

Nora’s whimper turned into a choked, high-pitched sob. She thrashed against the ropes that bound her to the stool, her feet kicking uselessly at the stone floor.

Ashlyn walked behind her, her steps slow, unhurried, and absolutely silent. She raised the knife over her head, the polished steel blade catching a single, cold, sharp gleam from the lantern light.