CHAPTER 63: CHAPTER SIXTY THREE

Ashlyn, her brilliant, last-ditch lie about suicide exposed as a desperate, cowardly maneuver, was left abandoned. Carlos, the man she had chosen, the man she had paid for with her own body, had taken a single, definitive step to the side, severing their alliance, and leaving her to face the consequences alone. She stood in the center of the room, her body trembling, her eyes wide with the terrifying, naked realization that she had no allies left.

Marissa’s cold, mocking chuckle was the only sound. "I thought so," she said, her voice a soft, venomous purr.

She did not wait for Beatrice’s permission. She did not need it. The Dowager had given her the authority, and now she would use it. "Guards," she commanded, her voice ringing with her new power. "Take the Second Lady to the central courtyard."

Ashlyn’s head snapped up. "What? No! You can’t!"

Marissa turned to her. "You have been found guilty of defying a direct order from the Grand Duke. You have been found guilty of conspiring with servants to undermine the authority of this house and the authority of your Duke. The punishment is thirty lashes and you will receive it now."

"No!" Ashlyn shrieked, her voice high with panic. She looked at Carlos, a last, desperate, wordless plea. He refused to meet her gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, his face pale with his own cowardice.

The guards did not hesitate. They were Derek’s men, and they had just witnessed their master execute a servant for less. They seized Ashlyn’s arms. She tried to struggle, but their grip was like iron. "You can’t do this to me!" she sobbed. "I am your sister! I am the Second Lady of this house!"

"Take her," Marissa said, her voice flat and bored.

The guards began to drag her from the room. Ashlyn, her heels scraping on the marble floor, was pulled, weeping and pleading, out into the bright, unforgiving sunlight of the main courtyard.

A few minutes later, the entire household staff was assembled. They had been summoned by a sharp, urgent bell, and now they stood in neat, terrified rows, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They saw the two guards holding a weeping, struggling Ashlyn in the center of the yard. They saw the Grand Duchess, her face as cold and impassive as a statue, standing before her. And they saw, leaning against a stone pillar at the entrance, the Grand Duke himself, his arms crossed, watching the entire scene with a look of cold, detached interest.

Lily stood beside her mistress, her hands trembling as she held a long, thin, black leather whip.

Ashlyn, her face blotchy and streaked with tears and terror, made one last, desperate attempt to save herself. "Marissa... Your Grace... please," she begged. "Even if you hold the household authority, that doesn’t mean you should abuse your power! You can’t do this! This is a private punishment... you’re doing this because you hate me!"

Marissa looked at her sister, her expression devoid of any emotion. "Abuse?" she repeated, her voice carrying easily across the silent, watching courtyard. "I already stated your crime in front of the Dowager. You defied the Grand Duke’s direct order. You conspired with a known criminal, Nora, to plant false evidence. You lied to the head of this house. How," she took a step closer, "is punishing a direct, proven crime an ’abuse of power’?"

She walked to Lily and took the whip from her maid’s trembling hands. The leather handle felt cool and solid in her palm. She was not angry. She was not gleeful. She was simply, and finally, restoring order.

She took her position, the whip held loosely at her side. Ashlyn, seeing the resolve in her sister’s eyes, squeezed her own shut, her body trembling.

CRACK!

The sound was as sharp and loud as a gunshot. Marissa had struck the stone paving right at Ashlyn’s feet. The sound alone was brutal. Ashlyn screamed, a high-pitched sound of terror, and flinched so hard she nearly fell. The assembled servants gasped as one.

"The first lash," Marissa said, her voice calm and clear, as if she were announcing a guest at dinner, "is for disobeying the Grand Duke’s order."

She swung her arm again. This time, there was a wet, sickening thwack as the leather tip landed squarely across the back of Ashlyn’s legs.

Ashlyn let out a shriek of disbelieving pain. Her legs buckled instantly. She collapsed to her knees, her hands flying to the stinging, burning line on her calves.

"Marissa! How dare you?" she screamed, her voice a mix of agony and outrage. "You hit me!"

"The second lash," Marissa continued, her voice a perfect, level monotone, as if she hadn’t even heard her, "is for your immoderate words and deeds, and for your disrespect to the lady of this house."

The whip whistled through the air. THWACK! It landed high on Ashlyn’s back, the force of it throwing her forward onto her hands. The fine silk of her gown tore, and a thin, dark red line of blood immediately welled up through the fabric.

"You wretch!" Ashlyn sobbed, her face pressed to the dusty stones. "You evil, vicious wretch! Even our father never beat me like this!"

From the entrance, Derek shifted his position, a small, dark, and deeply satisfied smile touching his lips. He was, he decided, finding his wife more and more impressive by the day.

"The third lash," Marissa said, her voice as calm as a winter morning, "is for failing to distinguish right from wrong, and for attempting to bring shame upon this family."

THWACK! The whip landed in the same place, crossing the first welt. Ashlyn’s body jerked, a raw painful cry torn from her throat. She was no longer defiant. She was just a woman in agonizing pain, weeping hopelessly.

Marissa looked down at the broken, sobbing form of her sister. She laughed. It was not a sound of humor or joy. It was a cold, empty, and terrifying sound. "You are crying already, sister?" she asked. "But you still have twenty-seven more to go."

What followed was a brutal, methodical, and soul-shattering ordeal. Marissa was not in a hurry. She did not strike with the wild, uncontrolled rage of a woman lost to her passions. She struck with the cold, measured, relentless precision of a judge.The whistle and thwack of the whip became a terrible, steady rhythm.

After the tenth lash, Ashlyn’s angry shrieks had dissolved into desperate, incoherent pleas. "Stop! Please, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Marissa, please stop! It hurts!"

After the twentieth lash, her pleas had dissolved into weak, pathetic moans. Her body, which had at first writhed and twisted on the stones, now just lay there, twitching with each new, agonizing blow. Her expensive, fashionable dress was in torn, bloody ribbons, clinging to the raw, mangled skin of her back.

The servants watched in absolute, horrified silence. Their faces were as pale as death. Some of the younger maids were crying silently, their hands clamped over their mouths, their bodies shaking. This was their new mistress. This was the new law.

Marissa raised the whip for the last time. Ashlyn was barely conscious, just a moaning, bleeding heap on the courtyard stones.

"The thirtieth lash," Marissa announced, her voice as clear and steady as it had been at the start, "is for having no discipline."

THWACK!

The final blow landed. Ashlyn’s body gave one last, violent, convulsive jerk, and then she was completely, mercifully still. She had fainted.

The courtyard was dead silent. The only sound was the drip, drip, drip of Ashlyn’s blood onto the pale grey stones.

Marissa stood for a long moment, breathing normally, not even winded. She looked at the whip in her hand, stained and dark, and then, with a small, dismissive flick of her wrist, she dropped it to the ground.

She turned to the pale-faced guards. "Take the Second Lady back to her chambers. Send a physician to ensure she doesn’t die." Her voice was cold. "She has been punished."

"Yes, Your Grace," the guards said, their voices trembling slightly. They rushed forward, visibly relieved to be doing something, and lifted Ashlyn’s unconscious, broken body as gently as they could. They carried her away, leaving a small, dark trail behind them.

Marissa turned, her gaze sweeping over the assembled, terrified staff.

"Everyone in this estate," she said, her voice ringing with an authority that was now absolute and unquestionable. "No matter who you are. Whether you are a kitchen maid or a member of this family. If you break the rules of this house... if you defy the Grand Duke... if you plot against its mistress... you will be dealt with."

She gave them one last, cold, hard look, then turned and walked back towards the grand entrance, her steps unhurried, her back straight, leaving the terrified, silent servants standing in the sunlit, blood-stained courtyard.

Derek, his dark, cruel smile now open and genuine, stepped aside to let her pass, his eyes gleaming with a new, deep, and dangerous appreciation for his truly ruthless wife.