CHAPTER 69: CHAPTER SIXTY NINE

Another figure stood at the door.

"Your... Your Grace?" Ashlyn stammered, the name a small, weak, choking sound in her throat. She instinctively curtsied, her body moving on its own, her knees almost buckling.

Derek did not acknowledge her greeting. He was the apex predator who had just walked into a fox’s den. He moved with a slow, deliberate, and terrifying power, his gaze sweeping over the private room, the chessboard, and finally, his sister-in-law.

He walked past her, ignoring her as if she were a piece of furniture, and sat down in the very chair she had just been sitting in. It was an absolute, crushing assertion of dominance. He owned this room now.

"People at this gambling house informed me that someone from our estate owes them a great deal of money," he said, his voice a low, casual rumble. He leaned back in the chair, the very picture of bored, ducal authority. "They are in possession of debts, signed with the Thompson family seal."

He slowly lifted his cold, penetrating gaze to hers. "I wondered who it could be. And now, I arrive to investigate, and I find my sister-in-law, here, in a private room."

"No, Your Grace!" Ashlyn rushed, her words tumbling out in a desperate, frantic jumble. "It’s not what you think! I swear, I am not here to gamble!"

"Then what are you here for?" Derek asked, his voice still quiet, still cold. He gestured with his chin to the table, to the abandoned game. "To play chess?"

The question was a quiet, brutal mockery. It highlighted the utter, damning absurdity of her presence in a place like this. Ashlyn had no answer. She could only stand there, her hands twisting in front of her, her mind a blank, screaming void.

Derek continued, his voice flat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick, folded sheaf of papers, dropping them onto the chessboard. They were IOUs, credit lists, and they scattered the small, carved game pieces.

"The credit list at this gambling house, and several others, all have the Thompson household seal on them. A seal you, or my brother, would have access to." He leaned in, his gaze sharp enough to peel skin. "If it’s not you... then it must be your beloved husband."

Ashlyn seized on the new target, the escape route he had just, unwittingly, offered her. "Carlos?" she whispered, her face a mask of perfectly performed shock and dawning horror. "I... I don’t know anything about this, Your Grace. He said he was visiting his old companions. I swear, I will ask my husband about this. I will get to the bottom of it."

She had her excuse. She had her new victim. But the original, primary goal of her trap was still sitting in her mind. She had to know. Was Marissa reborn or not? This was her only chance to test her theory, and perhaps Derek knew where she was.

She composed her face, her panic shifting back to the mask of a kind, gentle sister. "Your Grace," she began, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I also have something I was hoping to give to my sister. Some honey cakes. From a baker we both loved when we were children."

She tried to look small, lost, and worried. "I... I don’t know where my sister is now. The household is in such chaos..."

Derek was not interested. He had picked up one of the credit lists, his eyes scanning the staggering numbers, his expression darkening with a cold, controlled fury. "How would I know?" he snapped, his voice sharp, his attention on the paper.

He then looked up, and his gaze was no longer just cold; it was deeply, terrifyingly suspicious. "And what business is it of yours to know where she is?"

Silence.

He was done. He stood up, a tall, menacing shadow, his patience for her, for this entire, sordid place, completely gone. He gave her a look so full of cold contempt it made her flinch. A "death look."

"Pay back the money," he commanded. It was not a request. It was an order. "All of it. I want the Thompson seal, and the Thompson name, out of this gutter by tomorrow." He walked to the splintered door. "And I suggest you leave. This is no place for the Second Lady of the house. Don’t bring more shame to the family."

He left. The two guards stationed outside, who had heard everything, did not even look at her as he swept past them. They simply resumed their posts, impassive statues of the Duke’s authority as they followed him out.

Ashlyn was left alone in the gaudy, silent room, her entire body trembling with a mixture of icy fear and a white-hot, burning rage. She looked at the papers scattered on the table. She picked one up. And then another. And another. The amounts were staggering.

"That... that bastard," she whispered, her voice a low, shaking hiss of pure venom. "He actually lost this much silver behind my back?" She clutched the lists, the paper crumpling in her fist.

She had failed. Her perfect, brilliant trap had not only failed to catch Marissa, it had been stumbled into by the one man she could not, under any circumstances, afford to provoke. And in the process, she had discovered her "safe, gentle" husband was not just a deviant, but a secret, ruinous gambler.

She grabbed her cloak, her movements sharp and angry, and swept from the room, her mind a chaotic, bitter storm.

She walked. She did not dare summon her carriage, not from this place, not now. She walked quickly through the grimy, streets, her fine, aristocratic shoes clicking on the uneven cobblestones, her cloak pulled tight around her as if for protection.

The fear, the raw, cold panic she had felt under Derek’s gaze, was beginning to fade. It was being replaced by something else. A cold, hard, and deeply logical relief.

Marissa didn’t come.