Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 87 - Eighty Seven

"Senna, stop," Derek said, his voice gentle. "There is no need for formalities between us. You lost your home because of me. It was my fault an enemy attacked you. I am protecting you. It is not a burden. It is my duty."

She saw the softness, and she mistook it for an opening. This was her chance. She rushed to speak, her eyes cast down shyly, as if she were confessing a secret she could no longer hold. "It’s nothing," she whispered. "I would lose a thousand homes for you, Your Grace. You know that. You know... you know my feelings for you still remain. They always will." She looked up, her gaze a liquid, loving plea.

Derek sighed. The smile, the kind one, stayed on his face, but his eyes grew tired. He was fond of her, truly. But this was a dance he was weary of.

"Senna," he said, his voice soft, but with a new, firm, and unmistakable edge of finality. "I gave you the Golden Swan for a reason. I gave you the dance establishment so that you could support yourself. So that you would be your own woman, free and independent. So you would never be helpless, or at anyone’s mercy, ever again."

He looked at her, his gaze clear, trying, for what felt like the hundredth time, to make her understand. "You are a smart, and ambitious, and truly talented woman. Don’t waste your time, or your heart... on me."

He had been gentle, but it was a rejection. A clear and absolute rejection. He had called her ambitious. He had told her to support herself. He had told her not to waste her time.

Senna’s heart, which had been beating with a desperate, foolish hope, seemed to go cold and still in her chest.

Derek, feeling the heavy, awkward silence, turned and reached for the wine bottle again. He would have one more drink, and then he would send her to bed.

"Let me do it," Senna said quickly, her voice a little too bright. She rushed forward, taking the bottle from his hand before he could. She needed to be useful. She needed to be near him. She poured the dark liquid into his glass, her hand trembling almost imperceptibly.

"It doesn’t matter," she said, her voice a low, passionate whisper as she handed him the glass. "No matter how many times you reject me, I will always stay by your side."

She looked at the bottle in her hand. It was empty. "Oh," she said, her voice full of false brightness. "Let me get you another one." She turned to the sideboard, where he kept his collection.

Derek took a deep breath. He had to end this. He had to cut this last, lingering thread, for her sake, and for his.

"Senna," he said, his voice firm.

She stopped, her back to him, her hand on a new, unopened bottle of wine.

"You are here because I am indebted to you," he said, his voice clear and resonant in the quiet room. "I have never forgotten it. When we were young, you were the one who found me in that snowdrift. You saved my life. I am truly, and forever, grateful. And I will always, always, be in your debt for that."

She turned, her face full of a new, dawning, desperate hope. He did remember. He was grateful.

"But," he said, his voice kind, but as final and as sharp as a closing cell door, "my feelings for you... they end there. I have never had any romantic, amorous feelings towards you, Senna. I have always been honest with you about that." He looked at her, his gaze clear, unwavering. "I will protect you as a friend. I will support you as a patron. But I will not love you."

The hope on Senna’s face did not just die. It curdled. It twisted, in an instant, into a cold, hard stillness. Her mind went blank with a white-hot, silent, and suffocating rage.

Marissa.

It was all because of her. This cold, hard, unfeeling witch had come and, with her sharp tongue and her calculating, cold smiles, she had stolen him. The man she had loved, in her own desperate, possessive way, for years. The man who belonged to her.

"I don’t care," she whispered, her voice trembling with the force of her suppressed fury. "I just want to be with you..."

"It’s late now, Senna," Derek said, his patience finally, completely, gone. He was tired. His arm hurt. His heart hurt. He wanted to be alone. "Rest early."

He had dismissed her. Like a servant. After all that.

Her eyes, in her rage, fell to the desk. To the open box. To the shimmering, insulting, sky-blue dress.

He bought this for her, she thought, her mind a blank, white, burning field of jealousy. Time and time again he rejects me, his savior, the woman who has only ever loved him... but he buys her gifts? After she insulted him? After she shut the door in his face?

She began to walk back to his desk, the heavy, full, open bottle of dark, red wine in her hand. "I just want to..." she began, her voice a broken, trembling sound.

And then, her foot "tripped."

It was a tiny, perfectly believable stumble on the flat, smooth rug. A stumble that sent her lurching forward, a small, shocked "Oh!" of surprise on her lips.

The heavy bottle of wine tipped in her hand.

The dark, rich, staining, red liquid gushed out, not onto the floor but in a thick, ruinous, crimson wave, pouring directly over the delicate, pale-blue, starlight-silver silk.

The bottle, now free, crashed to the floor, shattering on the stone hearth, sending splinters of glass and more wine across her feet. A sharp, bright shard sliced a small, neat, bloody cut on her hand.

"Oh! Oh, my goodness!" she shrieked, her voice a perfect, hysterical, and totally false sound of panic. "I’m so sorry! Your Grace, I... I was careless! I’m so clumsy!"

She fell to her knees, grabbing at the now-ruined, wine-soaked dress, her hands (and the small, fresh, bleeding cut) smearing the stain, rubbing it in, making the ruin absolute.

Derek just stared.

He stared at the beautiful, priceless fabric, now a ruined, ugly, purple-and-red, soaking mess. It was the perfect, symbolic, and utterly infuriating end to his entire, frustrating day. All his effort, his hidden, softer feelings, his clumsy attempt to get close to Marissa... all of it, ruined by a clumsy, stupid, careless mistake.

"Forget it," he snarled, his voice a low, furious, and disgusted growl.

Senna flinched, looking up at him, her beautiful, amber eyes wide with "fear" and "remorse."

"Just... forget it," he snapped, standing up, his chair scraping violently backward. "It’s ruined." He shifted the chair, his rage finally having a physical outlet. "And the owner doesn’t want it anyway."

She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t want my gift. She doesn’t want any of it.

Senna’s eyes widened. The owner doesn’t want it? Dispose of it? A slow, secret, and absolutely triumphant joy bloomed in her heart. She had not just ruined the dress; she had ruined Marissa in his eyes.

"Your... Your Grace?" she whispered, as if she couldn’t believe his harshness.

"Take it," he snapped, his back to her, his voice a low, furious command. "Take the box. Take the ruined dress. Get it out of my sight. Dispose of it."

"Yes, Your Grace," Senna whispered, her head bowed in perfect, false humility.

She quickly, gratefully, gathered the ruined, dripping, wine-soaked fabric. She placed it back in its beautiful, now-stained box, curtsied to his rigid, angry back, and left the room, her heart singing with victory.