Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 196 - Hundred And Ninety Six

The hall was in deep desolation. Just hours ago, it had been a place of music, laughter, and the clinking of crystal glasses. Now, the silence was heavy and oppressive, broken only by the soft clink of silverware being cleared away by terrified servants. The air smelled of stale wine, extinguished candles, and the lingering, bitter scent of public humiliation.

Maids moved quickly, heads bowed, sweeping up the dirts of a celebration that had turned into a funeral for a reputation. They avoided looking at the grand staircase. They avoided looking at each other. The shame of the Thompson family hung over the house like a thick, grey fog.

But the true storm was raging in the private drawing room.

Beatrice sat in her high-backed velvet chair. The events of the mid afternoon had drained the color from her face, leaving her skin like parchment. Her hands, usually steady, gripped the armrests of her chair with a force that made her knuckles turn white. She was not just angry; she was heartbroken. She had spent a lifetime building the honor of this family, and she had watched her grandson and his wife tear it down in a single day.

Ashlyn stood before her.

The crimson velvet dress, which had seemed so regal and triumphant at the start of the banquet, now looked like a costume from a bad play. It was too bright, too loud for the somber room. Ashlyn’s head was bowed low, her chin touching her chest. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, squeezing so hard that her fingernails dug into her palms.

She was trembling, a subtle vibration that shook the silk of her skirt.

The silence stretched on for a long, agonizing minute. Beatrice just looked at her, her eyes cold and dissecting.

"I thought you were a sensible child," Beatrice finally said.

Her voice was not loud. It was low, raspy, and filled with a deep, crushing disappointment that hurt worse than a scream.

Ashlyn flinched. She stared at the pattern on the rug, unable to lift her eyes. The weight of the Dowager’s gaze felt like a physical pressure on her shoulders.

"When you hosted that banquet," Beatrice continued, shaking her head slowly, "I sensed trouble. I felt it in my old bones. It felt too much. Too soon. It felt... desperate."

Beatrice leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"But you insisted," Beatrice said, her voice sharpening. "You told me i shouldn’t worry about it.You told me to trust you. You brought that man... that seer... into my home."

Beatrice let out a bitter, dry scoff.

"He was a fake," she spat. "A charlatan in borrowed robes, spouting false words to line his pockets. And you... you let him lead us by the nose. You let him lead us straight into ruin."

Ashlyn’s breath hitched. A sob threatened to escape her throat, but she swallowed it down. She looked up, her eyes wide and pleading, brimming with tears.

"Grandmother," Ashlyn spoke, her voice trembling. "I only wanted..."

"You only wanted all of Denver to laugh at our family!" Beatrice interrupted, her voice rising to a shout that echoed off the walls.

She slammed her hand down on the armrest with a Thud.

"That is what you achieved, Ashlyn!" Beatrice cried. "You gathered them all. The nobility. The merchants. The gossips. You gathered them all here, in our home, to watch your husband be dragged through the mud! To watch us be humiliated!"

Ashlyn lowered her head again. The tears spilled over, dripping onto her hands. She had no defense. It was true. Every word was true. She had built a stage for their destruction.

Beatrice sighed, a long, ragged sound of pure exhaustion. She slumped back in her chair. She looked at Ashlyn. Then her gaze dropped. She looked at Ashlyn’s stomach. She looked at the small, barely visible bump hidden beneath the layers of velvet.

Her expression shifted. The anger remained, but it was tempered by a cold, hard pragmatism.

"If not for your pregnancy," Beatrice said, her voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the room.

Ashlyn shivered. She instinctively moved her hands to cover her stomach, a shield against the old woman’s wrath.

"If not for the child you carry," Beatrice said, her eyes hard as flint, "I would have given you strict punishment. I would have sent you to the family temple. I would have made you kneel on the cold stone until your knees bled. I would have stripped you of the Thompson name and sent you back to your father in shame."

Ashlyn knew Beatrice meant it. The Dowager was a woman of the old ways. Discipline was paramount. The only thing saving Ashlyn from the whip or exile was the child growing inside her. The lie she had started, the lie that had become real, was now her only lifeline.

Knock. Knock.

A sharp, heavy rap on the door broke the tension.

Beatrice straightened up. She wiped a hand across her face, composing herself.

"Enter," Beatrice called out.

The door opened. A guard entered.

He was a large man, one of the enforcers who had dragged Carlos away. He was sweating, his face grim and impassive. He bowed low to the Dowager, ignoring Ashlyn completely.

"We are done with the punishment, Your Grace," the guard reported. His voice was flat. "Fifty lashes. It is finished."

Ashlyn let out a small, involuntary whimper. Fifty lashes. She knew what that felt like. She remembered the fire on her back. She imagined Carlos, weak and soft, enduring that pain.

Beatrice nodded slowly. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t ask if her grandson was okay. She didn’t ask if he had cried out. At this moment, she didn’t care.

"Good," Beatrice said.

She looked at the guard. Her eyes were steel.

"Tell that fool," Beatrice spoke, her voice devoid of any grandmotherly affection, "that from today, he is banished."

Ashlyn gasped. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with horror.

"Banished?" Ashlyn whispered.

Beatrice ignored her. She kept her eyes locked on the guard.

"He is banished from stepping his feet into this estate," Beatrice ordered. "He is not welcome in this house. He has lost the right to live in luxury."

She pointed a shaking finger toward the window, pointing north, toward the mountains and the mines.

"Send him to join the workers in the other townhouse," Beatrice commanded. "The one in the mining district. The one near the quarries."

Ashlyn covered her mouth with her hand. The mining district townhouse was harsh. It was a bleak, cold outpost used for overseeing the laborers. It was a place of dust, hard work, and isolation.

"Let him see what real work is," Beatrice said, her voice hard. "Let him earn his bread with sweat, not bribes. Let him understand the value of the coin he threw away."

She leaned back in her chair, her face like stone.

"Without my summons," she declared, "he must not return. I never want to see him again."

The guard nodded, his face impassive. He understood. This was an exile.

"Understood, Your Grace," the guard said.

He bowed and turned to leave. He marched out of the room, his boots heavy on the floor, going to deliver the sentence that would strip the Second Master of his comforts and cast him into the wilderness.

The door closed.

Beatrice sat in silence for a long moment. She stared at the closed door, mourning the grandson she had lost to stupidity and greed.

Then, she turned her gaze back to Ashlyn.

Ashlyn was trembling violently. Her husband was gone. Her money was gone. Her reputation was destroyed. She was alone in a house that hated her.

"And what are you still doing here?" Beatrice asked.

Her voice dripped with disgust. She looked at Ashlyn as if she were a stain on the rug.

Ashlyn opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to beg. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to ask what would happen to her.

"Grandmother, I..." Ashlyn started.

"Get out of my sight," Beatrice spat.

Ashlyn flinched. She realized there was no mercy here.

She bowed. It was a jerky, broken movement, lacking all grace.

She turned and walked toward the door. Her legs felt heavy, as if she were walking through water. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

She closed the door behind her, shutting out the Dowager’s judgment.