CHAPTER 144: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FORTY FOUR

"Grand Duke Derek! Grand Duchess Marissa!" the herald’s voice boomed, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling.

Derek and Marissa stepped onto the long crimson carpet. Derek stumbled slightly, a calculated misstep that made the nearby nobles snicker behind their hands. Marissa, the picture of a supportive and long-suffering wife, tightened her grip on his arm, steadying him with a graceful smile that hid her annoyance.

They walked toward the dais where the Royal Family sat.

King Alistair the Fourth sat on the throne. He looked frail. His skin was gray, and his hands trembled slightly as they rested on the velvet armrests. But his eyes were still sharp. Beside him stood Prince Liam, dressed in midnight blue, looking like a handsome, sculptured statue.

Derek bowed low, a bit too dramatic.

"Your Majesty!" Derek announced, his voice booming. "Long live the King! I have brought my wife to see the splendor of your court!"

Marissa curtsied perfectly, her head bowed. "Your Majesty. Your Highness."

The King coughed, a dry, rattling sound. He waved a hand weakly. "Rise, nephew. Enjoy the festival."

"We certainly will!" Derek grinned,

straightening up and swaying just a bit.

They moved to their designated seats at one of the high tables near the front. As they sat, Marissa felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. It was a cold, heavy feeling, like a block of ice pressed against her skin.

She looked up, keeping her movements casual.

Prince Liam was staring at her.

He hadn’t moved from his spot near the throne. He held a goblet of wine, but he wasn’t drinking. His pale blue eyes were locked onto her face, dissecting her, analyzing her. It wasn’t a look of admiration. It was a cold, detached, and dangerous look.

Marissa felt a chill run down her spine. Derek had been right. The Prince was hunting.

She pulled out the fan Derek had given her. She snapped it open with a fluid flick of her wrist. Click.

She raised the fan, the mother-of-pearl peony catching the candlelight. She fluttered it gently, using the black silk to block Liam’s line of sight. She turned her head slightly, looking elsewhere, refusing to meet his gaze.

Beside her, Derek was already busy building his fortress of stupidity.

He grabbed a pitcher of wine and filled his goblet to the brim, splashing red liquid onto the pristine white tablecloth.

"Ah!" Derek laughed loudly. "The King’s wine is always the best! Drink up, everyone!"

He looked around the room, grinning at the other nobles, acting the part of the happy, useless fool. He threw his arm over the back of his chair, looking relaxed and sloppy.

But Marissa, sitting next to him, could see what the others couldn’t. She saw the tension in his thigh muscles, ready to spring. She saw the way his eyes darted around the room, counting the guards, checking the exits, memorizing the faces of the men standing near the Prince.

A few minutes later, a chamberlain approached their table.

"Your Grace," the chamberlain said, bowing. "The Duke of Westhaven and General Kael wish to drink with you. They are at the eastern table."

It was a summons to socialize. It was expected. If Derek refused, he would seem suspicious or aloof. He had to go. He had to play the game.

Derek let out a dramatic groan. "Socializing? Ugh. Can’t I just sit here with my beautiful wife?"

He sighed, standing up sluggishly.

"Ian!" Derek barked.

Ian, who had been standing like a stone statue behind Derek’s chair, stepped forward instantly.

"Yes, Your Grace?" Ian asked.

Derek leaned in close to Ian. He put a hand on Ian’s shoulder, looking like a drunk man using his servant for balance. He brought his mouth to Ian’s ear.

To the rest of the room, it looked like the Duke was demanding more wine or complaining about the company.

But Derek’s voice, when he whispered, was stone cold and completely sober.

"Are the Elite Shadows in position?" Derek asked.

The Elite Shadows.

It was a name that would make even the King’s blood run cold if he knew of them. They were the Thompson family’s deepest secret. Derek’s deepest secret. A group of assassins and spies trained not for war, but for emergency extraction and elimination. They were ghosts. They were never used unless the situation was dire. Unless Derek expected a trap. Unless he expected blood to be spilled on the ballroom floor tonight.

Ian didn’t blink. His expression didn’t change by a millimeter.

"Yes, Your Grace," Ian whispered back. "They are in the rafters. They are in the kitchens. They are waiting for your signal."

Derek nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. He clapped Ian on the shoulder loudly.

"Good man!" Derek shouted for the benefit of the room. "Fetch another bottle! The good stuff!"

He leaned in one last time, his voice dropping again to a whisper.

"Okay," Derek said. "Take care of Marissa. Do not let her out of your sight. I need to mingle with the others to avoid suspicion. If Liam makes a move... you know what to do."

"With my life, Your Grace," Ian promised softly.

Derek pulled away. He flashed a sloppy grin at Marissa.

"Don’t miss me too much, my dear!" Derek announced. "I have to go listen to old men talk about taxes!"

He winked at her—a quick, sharp signal that meant ’Stay safe’—and then wobbled away into the crowd, greeting people with loud, boisterous laughter.

Marissa watched him go. She felt a sudden emptiness at her side. Without his large, warm presence, the table felt very big and very exposed.

Ian stepped closer to her chair, his hand resting casually near the hidden dagger in his belt. He poured her a glass of water, acting the part of the attentive servant.

Marissa picked up her fan again. She looked out at the ballroom.

It was a swirl of color and noise. Acrobats were performing in the center of the room. Musicians were playing a lively tune. People were laughing, eating, drinking. It was a scene of immense wealth and joy.

And Marissa hated it.

"The court is even more boring than I thought," she thought to herself.

She watched a group of ladies giggling behind their fans, whispering gossip about who was sleeping with whom. She watched the men posturing, showing off their medals. It was all so fake. It was a play where everyone was wearing a mask.

"I would have preferred to be home," Marissa thought, a pang of longing hitting her chest. "I would prefer to be in my garden, tending to my roses. Or checking the ledgers of the Golden Swan. Or writing a letter to Ryan."

She took a sip of water. She felt isolated. The other noblewomen were avoiding her, likely because of her reputation as the "jealous shrew" or because they didn’t know how to approach the wife of the "useless" Duke.

She sat there, an island of calm in a sea of noise, fluttering her fan rhythmically.

She scanned the room, looking for threats. She saw the King looking tired. She saw the guards.

And then, she saw a woman walking toward her.