Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 78 - Seventy Eight

Senna pressed the tip of the dagger down, just enough to leave a small, white indentation on the skin. She could do it. One quick, slashing motion.

And then, she laughed. A cold, dismissive sound.

THUNK.

She plunged the dagger, with sudden, violent force, into the silken mattress, the blade sinking deep into the fabric just an inch from Marissa’s face. The vibration of it, the sudden, sharp sound, made the maid flinch.

Senna pulled the dagger free and gave it back to her maid, Esme, who stood waiting.

"No," Senna said, a new, colder, and far more terrible smile spreading across her lips. "Just destroying your face would be too boring. It’s too fast. And," she added, her voice full of a new, sharp, practical cunning, "it might earn you his pity. And pity... pity is a stronger bond than desire."

She wanted a different kind of destruction. A social death. A ruin so total, so public, that he would have no choice but to cast her aside in a disgust so raw seeing her would make him want to kill her.

"You were so unrivaled at the Thompson estate," she purred to the unconscious woman, her voice a cruel, one-sided conversation. She began to, with cold, impersonal efficiency, remove Marissa’s fine, silk gloves, pulling them from her hands finger by finger. "You played the game so well. You outmaneuvered Lorena, you charmed the Dowager. But here, in my world..."

She moved to the fastenings at the front of Marissa’s gown. Her fingers, strong and practiced, worked at the intricate laces of the upper bodice. "...you seem no different from any other woman I’ve ever dealt with."

She pulled the laces free, unwrapping the stiff, formal bodice, pushing the heavy, expensive fabric down. She and Esme worked together, pulling Marissa’s arms free, until the Duchess was left lying on the bed, her shoulders, her collarbone, and the top of her fine linen chemise completely bare. She was exposed, vulnerable, and deeply shamed, even in sleep.

"There are many concoctions a silver needle can detect, Duchess," Senna whispered, her hand brushing a strand of dark hair from Marissa’s peaceful, sleeping face. "And then there are a thousand and one... like the one you just drank... that can’t be."

She rose from her hovering position, a look of pure, triumphant satisfaction on her face. Her plan was perfect. "Marissa," she purred, "enjoy the big, big gift I have prepared for you."

She and Esme turned, walked to the door, and slipped out of the room, the click of the lock a soft, final, damning sound.

Senna glided down the main staircase, her face once again a mask of the perfect, gracious hostess. The main hall of the Golden Swan was in full, chaotic swing.

The music was louder, the air smokier, the laughter of the men more ragged and desperate. She was now scanning the crowd, hunting for her pawn.

Her mind was a cold, clear, and beautiful engine of calculation. The Grand Duke and his wife are not getting along. Everyone in the household knows it. So the lonely, neglected Grand Duchess, in a fit of despair, secretly comes to a pleasure house. And in her loneliness, after drinking to her fill, she has an affair. A common, drunken, and very public affair.

She smiled. When this gets out, she will be finished.

There. She saw him. Lord Ashford. A man from a good, old family, but with a weak will and a famously insatiable appetite for drink and women. He was perfect. He was at a corner table, his face flushed a deep, blotchy red, his cravat undone. He was loudly, and clumsily, pestering one of the younger dancers, his hand grabbing at her waist as she tried to twist away, her painted smile looking strained.

Senna moved in, her own smile like a balm. "Lord Ashford," she cooed, her voice cutting through his drunken haze.

He turned, his eyes unfocused. "Senna!" he boomed, his voice a happy, slurred sound. "My love! The most beautiful flower in the city!"

"You have drunk far too much tonight, my lord," she said, her voice a gentle, chiding purr. She put a firm, guiding hand on his arm, easily pushing the relieved dancer away. "A man of your quality needs to rest. Let me help you to a quiet room."

"A rest?" Ashford laughed, his eyes lighting up with a lecherous, drunken understanding. "Yes, yes! A ’rest’ is exactly what I need! With you, my beautiful Senna?"

"With someone even more special," she whispered, her voice a secret promise. She began to lead him, him stumbling and laughing, toward the private, winding staircase. "A new girl. Very exclusive. Just for you."

He followed her like a lamb, his heavy arm draped over her shoulder. He was so drunk, he was already fumbling with the buttons of his own coat. Senna’s stomach turned with a faint disgust, but her smile never wavered. This was her victory.

She led him up the stairs, down the quiet, carpeted hall to her own private parlor. The room where her trap lay, perfectly set. She took the key from her pocket—the key she had locked Marissa in with—and slid it into the lock.

She opened the door, her heart pounding with a cold, thrilling anticipation, ready to see her unconscious rival still sprawled, half-naked, on the bed. She pushed the door wide.

The room was empty.

The bed, while slightly rumpled, was bare. The windows were still locked. The other door was still bolted.

Senna froze, her smile freezing and then shattering on her face. Her hand, still on the doorknob, went ice-cold. Impossible. Her mind screamed. She... she was...

"Where is she?" her voice was a low, shocked, terrified whisper that was swallowed by the music from downstairs.

She took a step into the room, her eyes darting frantically, her mind unable to process what she was seeing. How? How could she be gone? The drug...

"A welcoming party!" Lord Ashford roared with drunken delight from behind her. "You are too kind, Senna!"

Before Senna could even turn, before she could understand his words, a force shoved her, hard, from behind.

She stumbled, hershoes catching on the rug, and fell, unbalanced, directly into Lord Ashford’s arms.

The drunk, delighted nobleman, believing this was all part of the game, let out a whoop of joy. "Aha!" he shouted, his arms like steel bands, wrapping around her in a crushing, suffocating embrace. "You’ve caught me, my lady!"

Senna gasped, her own scream of terror and confusion muffled against his chest, the smell of his wine and sweat overwhelming her. She was trapped. She twisted, trying to look back, her eyes wide with a new, dawning, and absolute horror.

She saw her.

Marissa was standing in the room, her gown no longer in disarray. Her hair was neat. Her gloves were back on. Her face was calm, cold, and composed. And on her lips was a small, victorious, and utterly terrifying smile.

As Senna watched, trapped in the drunk lord’s crushing embrace, Marissa slowly, deliberately, left the room, pulling the parlor door shut.

The last thing Senna heard, before the lock clicked into place, was the sound of her rival laughing softly in the hallway.