The announcement of the Dowager Duchess's arrival sent a ripple of tension through the ballroom. The idle chatter and whispers ceased instantly. Every guest, from the most distant cousin to the highest-ranking noble, straightened their posture and turned towards the grand entrance.
The doors swung open to reveal Duchess Beatrice Thompson. She was a woman well past seventy, with a cloud of silver hair pinned perfectly in place and eyes as sharp and clear as chips of ice. She leaned lightly on an ebony cane topped with a silver wolf's head, though it was clear she used it more as a symbol of authority than a tool for support. She was the matriarch of the Thompson clan, and her will was law within these walls.
As she entered, the entire room bowed or curtsied as one. "May Her Grace live a long life," they said in unison.
Beatrice's eyes, missing nothing, swept across the assembled family. A faint, regal smile touched her lips as she acknowledged their respect. She walked slowly towards the front of the room, her gaze falling upon the two new brides.
"Today, our family is blessed," she began, her voice frail but carrying an undeniable power. "Two couples unite, strengthening the future of the Thompson name…" Her eyes moved from Carlos and Ashlyn to the solitary figure of Marissa. Her smile vanished. She saw the empty space where her eldest grandson was supposed to be.
She saw the bride, still veiled, standing alone like a beautiful, abandoned statue.
The temperature in the room plummeted. Beatrice's gaze snapped to Lorena, the household manager, who was standing stiffly by the wall. "Lorena," the Dowager Duchess's voice was dangerously quiet. "Where is the Grand Duke?"
Lorena paled, her composure crumbling under the matriarch's icy stare. She opened her mouth to stammer an excuse, but before a single word could escape, the head steward rushed to the ballroom entrance, his face flushed with panic.
"His Grace has arrived!" he announced, his voice cracking with urgency.
A wave of relief and curiosity washed through the guests. Beatrice, however, did not look relieved. She looked furious.
Gripping her cane, she turned and strode purposefully out of the ballroom, her movements swift and silent. The rest of the wedding party, including the brides, followed in her wake, drawn by the unfolding drama.
They moved through the grand foyer to the main entrance, the open doors revealing a chaotic scene in the courtyard.
A single, mud-splattered carriage had skidded to a halt on the gravel. Derek, the Grand Duke, had just swung down from his horse. He looked nothing like a groom. His fine clothes were rumpled and stained, his dark hair was disheveled, and his handsome face was set in a mask of grim determination and exhaustion.
But it was the sight inside the carriage that made the crowd gasp. Slumped on the velvet seat was a woman. She was beautiful, with the exotic look of a stage performer, but her skin was a deathly pale, a sheen of cold sweat on her brow. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes were closed. She was clearly at the verge of death.
Beatrice stopped at the top of the stone steps, her knuckles white as she gripped her cane. "Derek," she said, her voice shaking with controlled rage. "You abandoned your own wedding. You would disgrace this estate, your family, and your bride, for some dancer?"
Derek looked up, his eyes meeting his grandmother's without a trace of fear or apology. "As Grand Duke, I am supposed to be the most powerful man in this city," he retorted, his voice rough. "If I can't even protect the people I cherish, then what dignity is left to me?"
Beatrice struck the stone floor with the end of her cane. The sharp crack echoed across the courtyard. "Outrageous!" she hissed. "Have you lost your mind? On such an important day, a day that secures the future of our house, this is where you choose to place your priorities?"
"I never agreed to marry her," Derek replied, his voice turning to ice as he shot a cold, dismissive glance at the veiled figure of Marissa. He then spoke directly to her. "If this spectacle shames you, you are free to leave. The annulment can be arranged." He then turned back, pointing a rigid finger at the carriage. "But Senna… if she dies today, I swear on our family's name, I will turn this joyous day into her funeral. There will be no celebration in this house."
Hidden in the crowd, Ashlyn watched with a gleeful, triumphant smile. His Grace is still so reckless. So driven by his passions, she thought. I remember how he made me the city's joke with his scandals. Now it's your turn, sister. Let's see you handle the mad Duke.
A profound silence fell over the crowd. The family was trapped between the unyielding will of their matriarch and the dangerous obsession of their Duke.
It was into this silence that a new voice spoke, calm and clear.
"I can save Miss Senna."
Every head turned. The words had come from Marissa. She stood perfectly still, a beacon of white serenity amidst the turmoil.
Derek's head snapped towards her, his eyes narrowing in disbelief and suspicion. "You?" he scoffed.
Marissa ignored him and turned to her maid. "Lily, go and…." she said, whispering into Lily's ear. Lily curtsied and slipped away into the house. The crowd watched, murmuring in confusion. A moment later, Lily returned, and in her hand, she held a small, crystalline vial. It contained a single drop of a milky white liquid.
Marissa took the vial from her maid. "This is an antidote," she announced, her voice carrying across the courtyard, clear and steady. "It cures all manner of poisons. It is made from the venom of the white viper of the southern mountains, a creature so rare it is thought to be a myth."
She held the vial up, the single drop of liquid catching the sunlight. "I will give this to you," she said, her gaze fixed on Derek. "But it comes with a price. If you wish to save her, you will immediately come inside and complete all the necessary traditions pertaining to this marriage ceremony with me. You will lift my veil. You will share the wedding cup. You will stand by my side as my husband."
She began to walk down the steps, her heavy gown whispering against the stone. "This vial will be yours the moment our duties as bride and groom are complete."
Derek watched her approach, his expression a mixture of fury and disbelief. He took a few steps forward, meeting her halfway on the grand staircase. They stood inches apart, the silent, watching crowd forgotten.
"You dare threaten me?" he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"I am merely offering you choices, Your Grace," Marissa replied, her voice calm and even, un-intimidated by his anger. "No threats are included. Only consequences. Her life, for your duty."
Derek stared at her, intrigued despite himself. This was not the timid, weeping bride he had expected. "What exactly do you want?" he asked, his tone shifting from pure anger to grudging curiosity.
"Naturally, I want what I am owed," Marissa said. "The full rights and respect that come with the Grand Duchess title. I won't just complete the wedding traditions with you. I also demand your promise that from this day forward, you will honor the position I hold, even if you cannot honor the woman in it and a wish I will use later."
A slow, cruel smile spread across Derek's lips. It was a smile of surprise and a strange, twisted kind of admiration. "No one has ever dared to bargain with me," he said softly. "You've got some nerve."
Marissa's gaze flickered to the carriage, where Senna had just let out a weak, pained cough. "Miss Senna's life is tipping off the scale," she said, her voice pulling his attention back to the urgent reality. "Her life is in your hands now."
She closed the remaining gap between them, her veiled face now just a breath away from his.
"What's more important, your pride or her life, depends entirely on your choice," she whispered, a secret smile playing on her lips from behind the veil.