CHAPTER 62: CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

Ashlyn clung to Carlos’s arm, her body pressed against his, a perfect portrait of a falsely accused wife now proven innocent. Carlos, his expression a mixture of relief and a lingering, troubled suspicion, stood firmly by her side.

"Please spare Ashlyn, Your Grace," Carlos pleaded, his voice earnest and directed at his brother. He was already tired of everything happening. He needed this entire, ugly affair to be over. "She has confessed her fault. It was a mistake born of a soft heart, nothing more."

Derek said nothing. He simply stared at Ashlyn, his gaze cold and flat, as if she were a bug he was deciding whether or not to crush. The threat was unspoken but absolute.

Beatrice, however, had heard enough. She was exhausted, her face a pale, wrinkled map of stress and disillusionment. She had her answer—a suicide, a "misguided" plot by a maid, a "foolish" act of sympathy from Ashlyn. It was a clean, simple story, and she was desperate to believe it, to end this cycle of chaos that had plagued her house since Marissa’s arrival.

"Since the matter has been clarified," she announced, her voice frail but final, her gaze sweeping over all of them. "Let it end here." She pushed herself up from her chair, a weary, old woman who had seen too much. "Lorena’s death was a tragedy of her own making. Nora’s crime of framing the Duchess, and Ashlyn’s of disobeying a ducal order, are settled." She turned her tired eyes to Marissa, the authority in her voice returning for one last, clear decree.

"All affairs of this household, as I said, have been returned to you. Handle them, Marissa. Restore order to this house."

Without another word, Beatrice turned and walked slowly from the drawing room, her shoulders slumped, her support staff following in her wake. The moment she was gone, the room’s atmosphere changed. The soft, matronly authority was gone, replaced by the cold, sharp dynamic of the two couples.

Marissa’s posture changed. The power, stripped from her just the day before, had been returned, now solidified by the Dowager’s public decree. She turned her head, her gaze sweeping over the servants, who were still standing, pale and terrified, by the walls.

"Servants," she called out, her voice clear and commanding, no trace of its earlier softness. "You heard the Dowager. Order is to be restored." Her gaze fell on the kneeling, sobbing Nora, but she addressed the guards first. "Miss Lorena, despite her crimes, was a long-time servant of this house. Give her a proper, simple burial."

The servants nodded, relieved to have a clear order. "Yes, Your Grace."

Marissa then turned her full attention to the maid who had been the linchpin of her sister’s entire plot. "And as for Nora, the witness who lied, who conspired to frame the Duchess, who played this entire household for fools..."

SHING-THWACK!

The sound was not loud. It was a wet, sharp, appallingly fast slicing sound, followed by a soft, choked gurgle.

Marissa, who had been speaking, stopped, her words dying in her throat. She spun around.

Nora was still on her knees, but her head was thrown back at an unnatural angle. A deep, horizontal, crimson line had appeared across her throat from which a sudden, shocking torrent of blood was now gushing. Her eyes, wide with a final, uncomprehending shock, were fixed on the man in front of her.

Derek stood in front of her, his sword arm now slightly extended. The polished, gleaming blade was no longer clean. It was dripping. A fine, hot spray of blood had spattered across his face and the front of his pristine white shirt.

Nora made one last, rattling, liquid sound, and then collapsed forward onto the carpet, her body convulsing once before lying still in the rapidly growing, dark pool.

Ashlyn let out a high-pitched, strangled scream, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. Carlos’s face went a pale, sickly green, his eyes fixed on the body, his stomach churning.

Derek did not look at them. He seemed completely unfazed by the act of violence he had just committed. With a calm, almost bored expression, he brought out his handkerchief and began to fastidiously wipe the blood from his own face. He then returned to his task, wiping his sword clean, the shing... shing... sound returning, a terrible, mundane rhythm in the silent room.

"That," he said, his voice a flat, indifferent murmur, "makes two burials."

He nodded to the guards. "Get that out of here."

The two guards, their faces pale but their expressions rigid—they were his men, after all, and had likely seen worse—moved forward. They quickly, efficiently, wrapped Nora’s body in a small carpet to contain the mess and carried her from the room. A maid, her body shaking so hard from fear, ran in with a bucket and cloth to clean the floor.

The room was quiet again, save for Ashlyn’s high-pitched, terrified whimpers.

Marissa had not moved. She had watched the entire, brutal, instantaneous execution with a cold, numb shock. She had wanted Nora punished, interrogated, yes. She had wanted to expose her sister. But not this. Not a summary execution in the middle of the drawing room. This was the true face of the Duke. Domineering, ruthless, and absolute.

She turned, her gaze settling on her sister. Ashlyn was still clinging to Carlos, her entire body shaking. She was the only remaining thread of the conspiracy.

"Ashlyn," Marissa said, her voice like ice.

Ashlyn flinched, her head snapping up, her eyes wide with terror, her gaze flickering from Marissa to the blood-stained sword Derek was still cleaning.

"You defied the Grand Duke’s direct orders," Marissa said, her voice clear and carrying. "Which is a serious crime. You will be punished." She paused, letting the words hang in the bloody air. "By whipping. Thirty strokes."

"No!" Ashlyn whispered, her face crumbling.

"Your Grace!" Carlos stepped forward, his voice a desperate, pleading sound. He was terrified. He had just seen what his brother was capable of. "Is this truly necessary? She has confessed! She was foolish, she was led by her soft heart, but she meant no real harm!"

Marissa stopped. She looked at Carlos, a long, slow, insulting look. Her gaze traveled from his pleading face, down his fine coat, to his boots, and back up again. A small, cold, utterly contemptuous smirk played on her lips.

"You just said, Lord Carlos," she said, her voice a soft, mocking purr, "that you were willing to take the punishment for your wife. Is that offer still valid?"

Carlos froze. He looked at Marissa’s mocking, triumphant face. He looked at his brother, who had finally finished cleaning his sword and was now watching the exchange with a look of cold, detached amusement. And he looked at his wife, Ashlyn, who was staring at him, her eyes wide with a desperate, hopeful plea.

He had seen Derek execute a woman for lying. What would he do to a man who had not only allowed his orders to be defied, but was now pleading for the culprit? He was not a brave man. He was not the hero of Ashlyn’s story.

He faltered. His gaze dropped. His face, which had been so full of protective passion, now paled with a simple, common cowardice.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and unhooked Ashlyn’s desperate, clinging hands from his arm. He took a single, definitive step to the side, away from her.

Ashlyn made a small, wounded sound, as if she had been slapped again. He had abandoned her. Completely.

Marissa’s smirk widened into a full, satisfied smile. She let out a low, soft chuckle.

"I thought so," she said.