Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 171 - Hundred And Seventy One

The morning sun struggled to break through the thick, grey clouds that blanketed the capital city of Denver. A cold, biting wind swept through the streets, carrying with it the heavy, somber mood that hung over the Thompson estate.

Outside the massive iron gates of the manor, a crowd had gathered. It was not the festive, happy crowd of the market square. It was a huddle of curious, whispering onlookers, drawn by the stark, undeniable symbol of death.

The gates, usually polished and imposing, were draped in heavy, white cloth. Long streamers of white silk hung from the iron bars, fluttering violently in the wind like the ghosts of the departed. In the Kingdom of Eudora, white was the color of mourning, but to hang it so publicly, without an official announcement, signaled a tragedy that was both sudden and shameful.

Whispers buzzed through the crowd like a swarm of angry flies. People were murmuring, their heads bowed close together, sharing the dark news that had leaked from the palace walls. Some passersby stopped, looked at the white banners, and shook their heads sadly before hurrying on, afraid to be caught near a cursed house.

"Who from the Thompson family had an incident?" a man asked his friend. He was a blacksmith, his apron stained with soot, squinting at the bleak decoration. "I saw the Dowager Duchess’s carriage a few days or is it weeks ago. She seemed fine, though she looked old."

His friend, a thin man carrying a basket of bread, looked around nervously before replying. He leaned in close, his voice a hushed rasp.

"Haven’t you heard?" the friend whispered. "The rumors are everywhere in the market. They say it wasn’t the old Duchess. It was the new one."

The blacksmith’s eyes went wide. "The Grand Duchess? But she is young. She was just at the festival."

"I heard the Grand Duchess committed suicide in prison," the friend said, the words heavy and ugly. "She hanged herself in her cell last night. Out of guilt."

"Guilt?" a third man joined in. He was a merchant, dressed in fine wool, looking indignant. "What guilt? What could a highborn lady possibly be guilty of?"

"Apparently," the merchant spoke, his voice ringing with self-righteous anger, "she was a monster in disguise. They say she forced musicians and dancers into prostitution at that fancy dance hall she bought. She ran a brothel right under the Duke’s nose. When one of the victims died and the Royal Guard caught her, she couldn’t face the shame."

The blacksmith shook his head, refusing to believe it. "That’s impossible. I saw her at the dance hall. She saved a girl from Lord Baron. She broke a fan over his wrist. She spoke of dignity. A woman like that doesn’t sell other women."

"Appearances can be deceiving, my friend," the merchant replied with a dark shrug. "The rich always have secrets. Maybe that was just a show. Maybe the guilt finally ate her alive."

At the back of the crowd, hidden by a heavy, hooded cloak, stood Senna.

She listened to every word. She soaked in the accusations, the shock, the disgust in their voices. It was music to her ears. Better than any applause she had ever received on stage.

She looked at the white banners snapping in the wind. To her, they looked like victory flags.

"Finally," Senna thought, a cold, satisfied smile spreading across her lips beneath her hood. "She’s actually dead. My plan worked perfectly."

It didn’t matter how it happened. It only mattered that Marissa was gone. Derek was free. The obstacle was removed.

Senna pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She turned and slipped away into the crowd, moving like a shadow. Her heart was singing. She would go back to her temporary room, wait a few weeks for the mourning to pass, and then... then she would return to comfort the grieving widower.

Inside the estate, the mood was hushed and fearful. Servants walked on tiptoes, afraid to make a sound. But in the west wing, in the private chambers of the Second Master, the atmosphere was very different.

The door to the bedchamber flew open. Ashlyn burst in.

She looked exhausted. She was still wearing her heavy traveling cloak, the hem stained with mud from the road. She had just returned from the temple on the outskirts of the city. Beatrice had ordered her to go there, to stay for some days and pray for the safety of her unborn child as penance for her "carelessness" in the garden.

It had been a miserable trip. Cold stone floors, bad food, and hours of kneeling while pretending to pray for a baby she knew she had tried to kill.

Ashlyn threw off her cloak, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. She didn’t care if it wrinkled. She was home.

"Carlos?" she called out.

Carlos was sitting by the window. He was holding a glass of wine, staring out at the grey sky. He turned when she entered. He didn’t look sad. He looked... strange. His eyes were bright, almost feverish.

He stood up and walked toward her.

"You are back," Carlos said.

"Grandmother finally let me leave," Ashlyn complained, rubbing her aching back. "She went on to the Outer Estate. She said she needed fresh air, but I think she just wanted to get away from the gloomy atmosphere here."

Ashlyn flopped down onto the edge of the bed.

"What is going on, Carlos?" she asked, gesturing vaguely toward the window. "I saw white banners on the gate. Did... did something happen to the Dowager on the road?"

Carlos shook his head. He walked over to her. He sat down beside her and took her hands. His grip was tight, excited.

"It is not Grandmother," Carlos said. His voice was a low, trembling whisper.

"Then who?" Ashlyn asked, confused.

"It is Marissa," Carlos said.

Ashlyn froze. Her heart skipped a beat. She stared at her husband.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice breathless.

"Marissa," Carlos repeated, a smile breaking through his serious expression. "Marissa is dead."

Ashlyn stared at him. The words didn’t make sense. Marissa? The woman who always won? The woman who had humiliated her, whipped her, and outsmarted her at every turn? Dead?

"Is it true?" Ashlyn whispered. She squeezed his hands. "Is she really dead? Are you sure?"

"Yes," Carlos said. "The news came from the palace early this morning. A messenger from the Royal Judiciary."

Ashlyn felt a wave of pure, dizzying joy wash over her. It was a physical sensation, like warm water rushing through her veins. The knot of fear that had been in her stomach since the "miscarriage" incident suddenly unraveled.

"But... how?" she asked, her eyes wide. "I was only gone for some days. What happened?"

Carlos stood up again. He was too excited to sit. He paced the small rug in front of the bed.

"Derek made excuses today," Carlos explained. "He gathered the servants this morning. He told them the Grand Duchess had passed away due to a sudden illness in the night."

Carlos scoffed.

"But that is just the story for the maids," he said. "He even changed the departure arrangement for Grandmother. He sent her to the Outer Estate early this morning, telling her it was for her health. He wanted her out of the house before the news broke."

Ashlyn nodded slowly. "Smart. He didn’t want the old woman to die of shock."

"Exactly," Carlos agreed. "He waited until she was gone before daring to hang the mourning banners. He is trying to control the news. He is trying to save the family face."

Ashlyn leaned forward. "But Carlos, tell me the truth. How did she die? I heard the rumor about what happened at the establishment. Did they execute her for killing the girl?"

Carlos stopped pacing. He looked at Ashlyn.

"No," Carlos said. "After Marissa was convicted for murder and taken to the palace... she was thrown into the royal dungeon."

He lowered his voice.

"They say she couldn’t handle the pressure," Carlos said. "They say the shame was too much for her proud heart. She hanged herself in her cell last night."

Ashlyn let out a loud gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Hanged herself?" she repeated.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat. She tried to suppress it, but she couldn’t. It escaped as a sharp, delighted giggle.

"Oh, how perfect," she said. "The proud, arrogant Grand Duchess, swinging from a rope like a common criminal."

Carlos nodded. He sat back down beside her. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

"This must not be publicized," Carlos warned her, though he didn’t look very concerned.

"Derek was very clear. Not even a funeral will be held. Because she was a criminal, because she committed suicide, she cannot be buried in the family tomb. It is against the laws of the ancestors."

"So no funeral?" Ashlyn asked.

"No," Carlos said. "Her body will be disposed of quietly. Buried in an unmarked grave outside the city walls. Erased."

Ashlyn was so delighted she could barely breathe. She clasped her hands together in her lap.

"So she is finally dead," she whispered. "Marissa is gone. For good. No body. No grave. No memory."

She looked around the room. It suddenly felt brighter. It felt bigger. The shadow that had been hanging over her life since she was reborn—the shadow of her perfect, capable sister—was gone.

"My dear sister," Ashlyn murmured.

She thought of Marissa standing in the pavilion, holding the glove. She thought of Marissa in the courtyard, wielding the whip. She thought of Marissa in the kitchen, making soup.

"Always outshining me," Ashlyn said, her voice dripping with venom. "Always acting so perfect. Always winning. Always looking down on me."

She laughed softly.

"She thought she was so smart," Ashlyn said. "She thought she could control everything. But look where it got her."

She smoothed her dress over her stomach, where her "heir"—the baby she had tried to kill but who had miraculously survived—was growing.

"But whoever survives," Ashlyn said, looking at Carlos with triumph blazing in her eyes. "Is the true winner."