CHAPTER 115: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN

The heavy oak door of Carlos and Ashlyn’s bedchamber was closed tight, sealing the room in a thick, suffocating silence. The air smelled of blood, sharp medicinal herbs, and the sweat of panic. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, blocking out the evening light, leaving the room in a dim, yellowish gloom lit only by oil lamps.

Ashlyn lay in the center of the large four-poster bed. Her face was as pale as the linen sheets she clutched. Her hair was matted with sweat and stuck to her forehead. She looked small and broken.

Standing around the bed were the key players of the Thompson family tragedy: Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, looking older and more frail than she had that morning; Marissa, the Grand Duchess, standing straight and silent near the foot of the bed; and Carlos, the Second Master, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger.

Dr. Aris, the physician Ashlyn had bribed, stood by the bedside. He was wiping his hands on a white cloth. The cloth was stained red. He looked nervous. He kept glancing at the door, then at Carlos, then at the floor. He packed his tools into his leather bag with jerky, hurried movements.

He cleared his throat. The sound was loud in the quiet room.

"I have finished the examination," Dr. Aris said. His voice was low and grave.

He turned to face the family members.

"The Second Lady’s body is naturally frail," the doctor explained, reciting the script he had been paid to say. "The pregnancy was unstable from the start. It was a delicate thing."

He paused, shaking his head sadly.

"Now," he continued, "with the extra external trauma (the fall down the stone steps) it was too much for her body to handle. She has miscarried. The bleeding was heavy, very heavy."

A sob broke from Ashlyn’s throat. She turned her face into the pillow, her shoulders shaking.

"All she needs now is rest," Dr. Aris concluded. "Absolute quiet and bed rest."

Beatrice stepped forward. She leaned on her cane, her hand trembling. Her eyes were filled with tears. She had been so excited about the great-grandchild.

"Sir," Beatrice asked, her voice cracking. "Is there no hope? Can’t the child be saved? Is there nothing we can do?"

The physician shook his head solemnly. "I am afraid not, Your Grace. It is gone."

He picked up his bag, clutching the handle tightly.

"I will prescribe some medicine to stop the bleeding and help her recover," he said. "She needs to follow the regimen strictly. If she rests well... she may conceive again later. In a year or two."

"Thank you, Doctor," Carlos said, his voice hollow.

"I will take my leave," the physician said quickly.

He bowed to the Dowager and then to Marissa. He avoided looking Marissa in the eye. He turned and hurried toward the door, his steps fast, almost running.

Marissa did not move her head, but her eyes followed him. She watched him grip his bag. She saw the sweat on his brow despite the cool room. She saw the way he didn’t look back.

He is running away, Marissa thought calmly. He is afraid. A doctor who just delivered tragic news usually stays to comfort the family or explain the medicine. He just wants to escape.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Carlos stopped pacing. He stood by the side of the bed, looking down at his weeping wife. He saw her pale face. He saw the blood-stained towels the maids were removing.

A wave of pure, black rage washed over him. He had lost his child. He had lost his ticket, his pawn. He had lost his future.

And he needed someone to blame.

He turned slowly. His eyes locked onto Marissa.

"It was you," he whispered.

Marissa stood still. She held his gaze, her expression cool and detached. She didn’t flinch.

"You," Carlos said louder. He raised a shaking finger and pointed it directly at her face. "It was you! You pushed Ashlyn!"

Beatrice gasped. "Carlos!"

"I saw it!" Carlos shouted, losing all control. "I saw you at the top of the stairs! I saw you holding her glove! You pulled her hand away and you pushed her! You made her fall and bleed!"

He took a step toward Marissa, his face twisted into an ugly mask of hate.

"Why?" he screamed. "Why did you harm my child? Was it jealousy? Because you couldn’t give Derek a child? So you had to kill mine?"

On the bed, Ashlyn cried harder. "My baby," she wailed. "My poor baby."

Marissa looked at Carlos with disinterest. She didn’t look like a woman accused of murder. She looked like a teacher watching a child throw a tantrum.

"I didn’t push her," Marissa replied. Her voice was calm, steady, and quiet. It cut through his shouting like a cold knife.

"Liar!" Carlos spat.

He turned to Beatrice. He grabbed the old woman’s arm, desperate for validation.

"Grandmother!" he pleaded. "You were in the garden, too! You were right there! You saw it, right? You saw them struggling! You saw Marissa standing there while Ashlyn fell! I am sure you witnessed everything!"

Beatrice looked distressed. She looked from Carlos’s angry face to Marissa’s calm one. She remembered the scene. She had seen Ashlyn holding Marissa’s hand. She had seen Ashlyn fall back. It had looked like a struggle.

But Marissa... Marissa had saved Ryan. Marissa had exposed the exorcist. Marissa had saved the family honor with the Crown Princess.

Beatrice shook her head, her voice weary and confused. "Carlos... Marissa is your sister-in-law. She is the Grand Duchess. She can’t do something like that. Not to her own sister."

Beatrice looked at Marissa, her eyes begging for an explanation.

"I am sure it is all a misunderstanding," Beatrice said weakly. "Perhaps it was an accident..."

"It was not an accident!" Carlos roared. "It was murder!"

Marissa finally moved. She took a step forward, moving out of the shadows.

"Grandmother," Marissa spoke, ignoring Carlos completely. "She was never pregnant."

The words landed in the room like stones.

Carlos froze. His mouth fell open. "What?"