CHAPTER 152: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO

The room was small and cluttered, smelling of cheap rosewater and dust. It was a room in a boarding house on the edge of the city.

A woman stood before a cracked mirror. She was humming a soft, tuneless melody. She picked up a powder puff and patted her face, smoothing her skin until it was pale and flawless.

She smiled at her reflection.

It was Marissa’s reflection that stared back at her.

The same dark hair, styled in the same loose curls. The same eyes. The same mole under the right eye—the perfect replica of Marissa.

She had spent hours perfecting the disguise. She had studied Marissa’s face. She had memorized her walk, her posture, her cold, polite smile.

She turned to the bed where a pile of clothes lay. She picked out a dress. It was a simple, elegant gown of cream-colored silk with subtle embroidery. It was a near-perfect replica of the dress Marissa had worn the day before. She had spent her last coins bribing a seamstress to alter it overnight.

She put it on. The silk felt cool against her skin. She tied the sash, cinching her waist.

She looked in the mirror again.

"Perfect," she whispered.

She picked up a black fan—a cheap copy of Marissa’s mother-of-pearl one. She snapped it open.

Click.

She left the room, locking the door behind her.

A carriage was waiting outside. It was not the Thompson carriage, but a hired one, black and unmarked.

"To the Golden Swan

," The woman ordered the driver, pitching her voice to sound lower, more authoritative. Like the Duchess.

The carriage rolled through the city. She sat back, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. She had nothing left. No home. No money.

But she had revenge and Lady Jane had given her the perfect opportunity.

"If I can’t be the Duchess," She thought, clutching the fan, "then the Duchess will be me. And she will destroy herself."

The carriage stopped in front of the Golden Swan. The renovations were progressing quickly. The scaffolding was gone, revealing the fresh paint and polished stone.

She stepped down. She held her head high. She fluttered the fan in front of her face, hiding her features slightly, just enough to create an air of mystery.

She walked toward the entrance.

The dancers who were gathered near the door saw the dress. They saw the hair. They saw the fan.

They curtsied immediately.

"Welcome, Your Grace," one of them said, smiling brightly.

She nodded regally, not speaking.

Another dancer, a bold girl with red hair, stepped forward. "Your Grace? Didn’t you follow His Grace for the festival? We thought you were at the palace or at Denver market square."

She froze for a split second. She hadn’t known about the palace trip. She didn’t answer. She simply gave the girl a cold, dismissive look and swept past her, entering the building.

The dancer blinked, confused. "Was she angry?"

She climbed the grand staircase. She moved with a purpose. She received every greeting that was thrown her way—nods from the barmen, bows from the musicians. To everyone in the Golden Swan, the Grand Duchess had returned to inspect her property.

She reached the second floor. The hallway was quiet.

She looked down the corridor. A cleaner was mopping the floor near the end of the hall. He was a thin man with shifty eyes.

He looked up as the imposter approached. He saw the dress. He saw the face.

But then She lifted her fan slightly and tapped it against her chin in a specific rhythm.

Tap-tap-tap.

The cleaner’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the signal. He was one of the spies Derek hadn’t caught—one of the men loyal to the highest bidder. And Lady Jane had paid him well.

He gave the woman a signal—a quick, sharp nod. The hallway was clear. The trap was ready.

She nodded back. She continued walking.

As she got closer to the private rooms, the sound of a struggle reached her ears. A door burst open.

A young dancer ran out into the hallway. Her dancer’s costume was torn at the shoulder, revealing bruised skin. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair a mess.

She was running blindly, looking over her shoulder.

She slammed right into the imposter.

"Oh!" the girl cried, stumbling back.

She looked up. She saw the cream dress. She saw the face she trusted.

"Your Grace!" the girl gasped, grabbing the woman’s arm. "Please! Please help me!"

The imposter looked down at her. She kept her expression calm, benevolent.

"What is it, child?" She asked, mimicking Marissa’s voice perfectly.

The girl pointed back at the open door.

"Lord Basil," the girl sobbed. "He is drunk. He... he is trying to force himself on me! He tore my dress! He said he paid for me!"

The girl looked at the woman before her with desperate hope.

"Please, Your Grace," she begged. "You promised! You said we don’t sell our bodies! You said you would protect us!"

She looked at the girl. She looked at the open door where a heavy, drunk man was stumbling out, shouting.

She smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile.

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a white handkerchief. It looked clean and soft.

"Hush now," She said soothingly.

She reached out and dabbed the sweat and tears from the girl’s face.

"Lord Basil is a powerful man," She whispered. "He adores you. He has paid a lot of money."

The girl froze. She stared at the "Duchess."

"What?" the girl whispered.

"Why not just comply with him?" The woman asked, her voice hardening. "It is your job, isn’t it?"

The girl pulled back, horror dawning on her face. "But... you said..."

The imposter moved fast. She pressed the handkerchief firmly over the girl’s nose and mouth.

"Breathe," She commanded.

The girl struggled. She tried to push the imposter away. But the scent from the handkerchief—a sickly sweet, chemical smell—filled her lungs.

"What... happening?" the girl asked, her voice slurring.

She suddenly felt drowsy. Her limbs felt heavy, like lead. The hallway began to spin.

"You said..." the girl mumbled, her eyes drooping. "We don’t... sell..."

She slumped against the imposter, her legs giving way.

"The handkerchief..." the girl said weakly, her last thought before the darkness took her. "Is drugged."

The imposter tucked the handkerchief away.

"Reputation," She whispered, "is such a fragile thing."

She smiled, knowing that by tomorrow morning, everyone in the city would know that the "Grand Duchess" was nothing more than a madam who sold her girls to the highest bidder.