Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 86 - Eighty Six

The long, silent, and deeply humiliating walk from Marissa’s bedchamber to his own study was a torment. Derek’s bootsteps were heavy, each one an angry, frustrated thud on the plush carpets. His mind was a chaotic, burning storm.

"Close the door on your way out."

He muttered the words under his breath, his voice a low growl. He had been dismissed. Dismissed. By his own wife, in his own house, after he had come to her room, his motives a confusing, tangled mess of concern and a strange, unfamiliar attraction. He had been clumsy. He had been awkward. And she had looked at him as if he were a foolish, inconvenient boy.

He felt like a fool.

He reached his study and opened the door. He strode inside, his hands clenched at his sides. He had just executed so many people in cold blood and had not felt a single flicker of emotion. So why did this woman, this Marissa, with her cold eyes and her sudden, devastating smile, have the power to make him feel like this? To make him feel small, and angry, and completely, utterly... confused?

He raked his hands through his hair, pacing the room like a caged lion. His gaze, hot and unfocused, swept over his desk, over the maps of the northern border, over the ledgers Marissa had so calmly returned to him about Carlos theft.

And then, his gaze landed on the box.

It was an elegant, long, flat box, tied with a simple, silver ribbon. It had been delivered that afternoon, and he had been waiting for the "right" moment. He had been, he admitted to himself, waiting for an excuse.

His anger, his pacing, his frustration—it all just... stopped. He walked to the desk, his movements suddenly slow, his anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by that same, stupid, soft feeling he had felt in her room.

He sat down heavily in his large, leather chair. He untied the ribbon. He lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in a bed of pristine, white paper, was a dress of the finest, most delicate silk he had ever seen. The color was a pale, breathtaking blue, the shade of the sky at the very first moment of dawn, and it was woven with a silver thread so fine it looked like captured, liquid starlight.

He had commissioned it weeks ago. He had told himself it was a "thank you" gift, a formal payment for her saving Ryan’s life and for saving his yesterday. A peace offering.

He reached out, his large, calloused fingers, so used to holding the hilt of a sword or the reins of a horse, gently, almost hesitantly, touching the fabric. It was softer than he had imagined.

"Marissa," he whispered, the name an unconscious, soft admission in the quiet, empty room. "And I... I wanted to gift you this nice cloth. I’m sure she would had thrown it back at me."

He felt foolish. He felt rejected before he had even offered it. He had stood in her doorway, a bumbling, awkward man, and she had shut the door in his face. And here he was, staring at a gift she would probably mock, or accept with that same, cold, polite, empty smile.

He grabbed the heavy, crystal decanter from his sideboard and a glass. He didn’t bother to measure. He poured a generous, three-finger amount of the dark, amber wine and gulped it down in one, long, burning swallow. The fire in his throat was a welcome, familiar pain, a clean burn that cut through the confusing, messy knot in his chest.

He had just poured a second, equally large, glass when a soft, hesitant knock came from the heavy study door.

His head snapped up. His heart, the one he had thought so cold and controlled, gave a single, hard, stupidly hopeful thump.

Is it Marissa?

A small, eager, and completely involuntary smile lit up his face. He sat up straighter. "Come in!" he shouted, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful.

The door opened slowly. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

It was Senna.

She stood in the doorway, a vision of perfect, fragile beauty. She was in a simple, pale-blue nightgown, her dark hair unbound, her large, amber eyes wide with a look of perfect, worried concern. She curtsied deeply, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"Your Grace," she whispered, her voice a soft, tremulous sound.

Derek’s smile didn’t just falter; it vanished, as if it had been a mask that had just been dropped. His face went flat, cold.

Oh. It’s just Senna.

The wave of disappointment was so sharp, so sudden, that it tasted like ash in his mouth. He was furious. He was furious at Senna for not being Marissa, and he was furious at himself for being so pathetically, childishly disappointed.

He turned away from her, his back to the door, and picked up his wine glass. He took another long, deep, and angry drink.

Senna came further into the room, her movements silent and graceful. She saw his wide, tense shoulders, his rejection of her. She also saw, in that same, quick glance, the open, elegant box on his desk. She saw the shimmering, impossible, sky-blue fabric.

A small, sharp, hot needle of jealousy pierced her heart. A gift. For her. After she has treated him so badly. She had heard the servants whispering, of course. She had heard how the Duchess had shut the door in the Duke’s face. And still, he was planning to give her gifts.

She quickly, perfectly, masked her own anger, her own hurt. She arranged her face into a mask of pure, sweet, gentle concern.

"Your Grace," she said, her voice a soft, fragile, musical sound. "You are injured. Your arm... I saw it, after the guards left. You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. It is bad for your healing."

He turned, forcing the charming, lazy "skiver" smile, the one he always used, back onto his face. It felt heavy, like a lead mask. "Oh, it’s fine, Senna. It’s just a scratch." He gestured, not unkindly, to a chair. "Why are you out of your room so late? Is anything wrong? Is the east wing not to your liking? Do you need anything?"

Senna’s beautiful, pitiful face crumpled. Her lower lip trembled, and her large, amber eyes filled with a sheen of unshed tears. She walked closer, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a picture of perfect, heartbreaking guilt.

"I... I’ve caused you so much trouble," she whispered, her voice catching on a sob. "My house... it burned... and now I am a burden on you, on your family. I feel so terribly guilty. I cannot sleep."

His expression softened, just a little. This, at least, was familiar. A beautiful, distressed woman. He knew the steps to this dance and where it was heading to.