Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 90 - Ninety

Senna’s mind, which had been so sharp and calculating, was now a blank, white-hot wall of panic. Her entire, brilliant, cruel scheme had just, in a single, unforeseen instant, blown up in her face.

She had to think. She fell back on her one, true defense: she became a victim.

Her hard, angry expression crumpled. Her eyes, which had been glittering with malice, instantly filled with huge, tragic, overflowing tears. Her lower lip began to tremble, a perfect, pitiful, heartbreaking quiver.

"Your Grace," she whispered, her voice a broken, trembling sound. She took a small, stumbling step towards him, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. "The dress... it... it was in the box you told me to... to dispose of. But when I saw it..."

She looked up at him, her beautiful, tear-filled eyes a mask of pure, innocent admiration. "It... it looked so beautiful, Your Grace. Even with the stain. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It... it just seemed like such a terrible, terrible waste to discard it."

She lowered her gaze, as if in shame. "So I... I took it. I spent all of last night carefully, lovingly, washing it. The stain... it wouldn’t come out completely, but I... I just... I wanted to wear it. Just once."

Derek’s expression did not soften. His face was like carved stone.

"Other things are fine," he said, his voice a low, cold, and utterly inflexible sound. "A ruined dress is just a ruined dress. But you have seen the Grand Duchess. You have seen her wear this exact style. What were you thinking?"

Marissa, who had been watching this entire exchange with the cool, detached interest of a passerby observing a failed attempt at a good gossip, finally spoke.

She stepped forward, her own, simple, cornflower-blue dress a stark, clean contrast to Senna’s stained, gaudy, and suddenly pathetic-looking copy.

"Lady Senna," Marissa said, her voice a light, almost-cheerful tone.

Senna flinched, her sobs catching in her throat as she looked at Marissa.

"Since you enjoy copying me so much," Marissa continued, a small, bright, and utterly cruel smile on her lips, "and since you seem to fancy my... old clothes... I will have Lily help you."

She turned, her gaze falling on her own maid. "Lily."

"Yes, Your Grace?" Lily whispered, her eyes wide.

"After we are finished here," Marissa said, her voice clear and carrying, "please go to my chambers. Fetch all of my discarded garments from the past season. The ones I was going to give to the charity house."

Lily’s eyes widened, and a small, vicious smile of understanding dawned on her own face. "Yes, Your Grace. At once."

Marissa turned back to Senna. Her smile was one of pure, devastating, wifely generosity. "You can have them all," she said brightly. "Later."

The silence that followed was absolute. Marissa had, in front of the man she was trying to win, re-framed her. Senna was now a beggar. A charity case, so poor and desperate that she had to dress in the Duchess’s cast-off, discarded, old clothes.

The blood drained from Senna’s face. The tears on her cheeks, which had been a performance, were now very, very real. But they were tears of humiliation. She was shaking.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice a strangled, broken sound. "I... I am suddenly feeling... unwell." She curtsied, a low, clumsy, broken movement. "I... I will take my leave."

She did not wait for a dismissal. She turned and fled, her stained, blue dress a flag of her own disgrace. Esme, her face as pale and ashen as her mistress’s, scurried after her, a shadow fleeing the sun.

The garden was quiet again. The two of them were left standing there, amidst the flowers, the half-watered pots, and the three, very expensive, and now very awkward, boxes.

Derek stood there, his mind a jumble. He had been so furious at the situation, so ready for a fight. And now, he just felt... strange. He had watched his wife, with a few, soft, smiling words, completely and totally annihilate a woman, and he had found it... impressive.

He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet air. He tried to put his boyish, charming smile back on, but it felt stiff, awkward.

"Well," he said, his voice a little too loud. "She’s... gone. So." He gestured, with a renewed, forced enthusiasm, at the open boxes. "I bought you a prettier one. And it’s not stained."

Marissa just looked at him, her face a cool, unreadable mask.

He was beginning to panic. This was not going well. "It’s purple," he said, stating the obvious, feeling like a complete and utter fool. He turned to his guards, his voice a low, annoyed bark. "Come on, bring them closer! Let the Duchess see them! What are you waiting for?"

The guards, who had been trying to make themselves invisible, jumped. They quickly, and very nervously, lifted the heavy boxes and placed them on a table, directly in front of Marissa.

Derek’s charming, pleading smile returned. "See? Purple. And... accessories." He felt like a child, holding up a drawing, desperate for praise. Please don’t reject this one, too, he thought, his stomach tight with a strange, unfamiliar, and deeply uncomfortable nervousness. Please. Just say you like it.

Marissa was silent. She looked at the gorgeous, royal-purple gown. She looked at the glittering, heavy, and priceless diamond-and-amethyst necklace. And then, her gaze settled on the third box. On the black, polished, lacquer fan, with its single, delicate, and perfectly inlaid mother-of-pearl.

She reached out, her gloved fingers bypassing the dress, bypassing the jewels, and picked up the fan. She flicked it open with a sharp, elegant snap.

She looked at him over the top of it.

"Buying so many expensive things," she said, her voice a cool, light, and deeply amused drawl. "It seems, now that I have the household authority, I will have to start controlling your allowance, Your Grace."

Before he could even process the words, she tapped him, a light, playful, and utterly shocking little thwack, on the chest with the closed fan. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

And she smiled.

It was the smile from the garden. The real one. It was small, it was faint, it was gone in an instant, but it lit her eyes, and it made the small mole under her eye crinkle.

Derek’s brain, which had been in a state of high-alert, defensive confusion, simply... stopped. He stared. He had not imagined it. It was real. She was... teasing him.

He let out a short, surprised, and deeply relieved laugh. "I’m glad you are not angry," he said, his voice full of a warmth he didn’t even realize was there.

Marissa’s small smile lingered. "I won’t deny," she said, her voice a soft, quiet admission. "I love this fan the most."

In the quiet guest room of the east wing, the sound of tearing silk was like a scream.

RIP.

SHRED.

THUNK.

Senna, filled with rage, was destroying the dress. She had her sharpest sewing scissors in her hand, and she was attacking the pale-blue silk as if it were a living thing. She stabbed the blade in, pulling and tearing, her breath coming in low, angry grunts.

The beautiful, starlight-woven fabric was now nothing but a pile of shredded rags on her floor.

She threw the scissors against the wall, her body trembling with a hatred so profound it made her feel sick.

"Marissa," she hissed to the empty room, her voice a low, venomous growl. "How dare you. How dare you humiliate me."

She paced the room, her hands clenched, her mind a repeating, obsessive loop of Marissa’s cold, pitying smile, and Derek’s cold face.

"I have been with him for years," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I am the one who understands him. He belongs to me." She stopped, her eyes, in the mirror, looking wild, crazed. "And no one," she vowed, her voice dropping to a deadly, final promise, "no one else, is going to have him."