Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 182 - Hundred And Eighty Two

The atmosphere in the west wing of the Thompson estate was heavy, suffocating, and thick with the poisonous fumes of disappointment. The sun was shining outside, bright and cheerful, mocking the dark mood that had settled over the chamber of the Second Master and his wife.

The news of Marissa’s "resurrection" had shattered the fragile, joyful peace Ashlyn and Carlos had built on the foundation of her supposed death.

The mourning banners outside the gate had been taken down. The whispers among the servants had shifted from tragic gossip to hushed awe. The Grand Duchess was alive. She was free. And she was back in power, her authority absolute.

Ashlyn paced.

She moved back and forth across the expensive Persian rug, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the polished floorboards.

Click-clack. Click-clack.

She held her silk fan in a white-knuckled grip, snapping it open and shut, open and shut, the sound like the cracking of small bones.

"Marissa is not dead," Ashlyn hissed. The words tasted like ash in her mouth.

She walked to the window, peering through the heavy velvet drapes. She had expected to see black bunting. She had expected to see servants weeping. She had expected to see a coffin being carried out the back gate in shame. Instead, she saw gardeners pruning the hedges. She saw life going on as if nothing had happened.

She spun around, her skirts swirling around her ankles.

"Why isn’t she dead?" Ashlyn demanded, her voice rising in pitch, bordering on hysteria. "She was in a coffin! I heard the reports from the servants! The Judiciary carriage took her! The rumors were everywhere! She was supposed to be buried by now! It was all perfect!"

She felt a scream building in her throat. Every time she thought she had won, every time she thought she had finally stomped out the fire that was her sister, Marissa rose from the ashes, brighter and more dangerous than before.

Thump.

A heavy object flew across the room and slammed into the wall, narrowly missing a vase.

It was a book. A thick, leather-bound volume titled Strategy and Command: A History of Northern Warfare. It hit the plaster with a dull thud and fell to the floor, its pages crumpled and bent.

"Stop pacing!" Carlos shouted.

He stood up from his armchair near the fireplace. His face was flushed red, his hair disheveled as if he had been pulling at it. He looked less like a noble studying for greatness and more like a petulant child forced to do chores.

"It is distracting!" Carlos yelled, gesturing wildly at the room. "The clicking! The pacing! The whining! How can I think?"

Ashlyn froze mid-step. She looked at the book on the floor—a symbol of the military power she desperately wanted him to acquire—treated with such disrespect. Then she looked at her husband.

"How can I study?" Carlos continued to rant, kicking the footstool. "I am trying to learn about formations! About supply lines! About flanking maneuvers! How can I focus on becoming a commander when you are clacking that infernal fan and whining about your sister?"

He slumped back down into the chair, rubbing his temples.

"It is useless anyway," he muttered. "These words... they are dry as dust. They make no sense."

Ashlyn swallowed her anger. It was a hard, sharp lump in her throat. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to tell him that he was the one who was distracted, that he was the one who was lazy, that he was the one who needed to step up and be a man. She wanted to tell him that reading a book was the bare minimum required to steal a dukedom.

But she couldn’t.

He was her only hope. He was her ticket to power. He was the father of her "heir," the only shield she had left against Marissa’s vengeance. If she alienated him now, she would be alone.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced her facial muscles to relax. She smoothed the lines of rage from her forehead. She composed her features into a mask of calm, supportive, wifely concern.

She walked over to the book lying on the floor. She bent down gracefully, picking it up. She smoothed the crumpled pages carefully, treating the object with the respect Carlos refused to give it.

She walked to the table next to Carlos’s chair. She set the book down gently, squaring it with the edge of the table.

She exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from her shoulders.

"Don’t be angry, my love," Ashlyn said softly. Her voice was honey and silk.

She walked behind his high-backed chair. She placed her hands on his shoulders. She could feel the tension in his muscles, the knots of frustration and inadequacy. She began to massage him, her thumbs digging into the tight cords of his neck, her touch gentle and soothing.

"I am sorry," she whispered, leaning down so her lips brushed his ear. "I am just... anxious. For us. For our future."

Carlos sighed. His head fell back against the chair. The anger began to drain out of him under her ministrations.

"It is hard, Ashlyn," he complained, his voice taking on a whining edge. "The language is impossible to grasp. The diagrams are confusing. Why must I read this? I am a Thompson. Leading should be in my blood."

"It is in your blood," Ashlyn lied smoothly. "But the world needs to see it."

She moved her hands down his arms, rubbing his biceps.

"Our family depends on you now," she whispered. "You are the future. Forget Marissa. Forget the noise outside. Just focus on the goal."

She came around the chair and knelt beside him, looking up into his eyes. She placed her hands on his knees.

"Take over the military," she urged, her eyes burning with intensity. "That is the key, Carlos. The title of Grand Duke is just a word. The power lies in the swords. Whomever the army follows, the King must respect."