CHAPTER 54: CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

The Golden Swan, the dance establishment Derek had gifted to Senna, was a riot of sound and light. The grand hall, which had been an empty, echoing space just weeks before, was now the pulsing, overcrowded heart of the city. A frantic, intoxicating music filled the air—the thrum of drums and the high, whining melody of lutes. The air was thick with the smells of expensive perfume, spilled wine, and the sweat of a hundred bodies packed together.

In a dimly lit corner, two wealthy merchants, their faces flushed with drink, laughed loudly as they watched the dancers on the main podium.

"Isn’t that the new one?" one of the men shouted over the music, gesturing with his tankard. "The dancer who graced us with her steps last week?"

His companion, a larger man with a wobbly grin, nodded. "Yes, she is! The owner, Miss Senna, she really knows how to pick talent." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a wine-soaked whisper. "I heard a rumor... a good one. They say the owner is the Grand Duke’s mistress. That he, the Duke himself, bought her this entire place."

The first man’s eyes went wide. "He truly favors her, then! To spend so much..."

The larger man chuckled, his gaze fixed on the dancer. "Oh, it’s more than that. I heard an even more... disturbing rumor."

"What is it?"

"His Grace’s mistress... they say she is from the West."

The first man flinched, the alcohol seeming to leave his body for a moment. The festive air around them suddenly felt cold. The West was not just a place; it was the enemy. It was the land of magic different from their own normal land. "The West? Are you sure?" he whispered.

"Yes," the other man nodded, his drunk confidence returning. "Haven’t you watched her live performance? Look at her—that is a Western dance. All those wild movements, so seductive, so... unrefined."

The first man watched the dancer for a moment, then relaxed, a sly grin returning to his face. "Ah, I heard she just learned that style of dance to please the Grand Duke. A new, exotic trick." He nudged his friend. "And I might add, judging by this place, it worked."

"Don’t let His Grace hears you or you will be punished."

They both laughed, a loud, braying sound, and clinked their tankards together, turning their full attention back to the show.

Above them, in the lavish VIP room, Derek lounged in a high-backed velvet armchair, a large window giving him a perfect, unseen view of the stage below. He held a glass of wine, his head moving with a lazy, appreciative nod, the very picture of the bored, dissolute Duke he pretended to be.

Ian, his personal guard, stood like a statue in the shadows by the door, his face grim, his presence a silent contradiction to the festive room.

"Your Grace."

Ian’s voice was a low murmur, but it was the signal. Derek did not turn, but the lazy, half-lidded look in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by a sharp, cold, and absolute intelligence. The "skiver" was gone.

He bent to whisper in Derek’s ear, his voice too low for even the walls to hear. "A message just arrived. Commander Leon has left the northern border. He is on his way to the palace."

Derek’s face remained perfectly still, but his eyes narrowed. He stared, unseeing, at the dancer below. Leon... he thought. He’s been undercover for years. If he’s broken cover and is coming straight to the palace, it means he’s found it.

"Commander Leon has been living a lie for years," he said, his voice a low, hard rumble, no longer slurred with feigned drink. "Now that he has returned, he must have found clues. Clues about the massacre of the Thompson family soldiers back then." His hand, holding the wine glass, tightened, his knuckles turning white. My father’s regiment.

He took a slow, steadying breath. "When he reaches the city, before he gets to the palace, I must be the first to speak to him. Tell me at once."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ian bowed, melting back into the shadows.

The door to the VIP room opened, and the facade snapped back into place in an instant. The hard, calculating Duke vanished. The lazy, charming "skiver" returned, his shoulders slumping, his appreciative smile returning.

Senna entered, her face flushed with the success of the performance downstairs, her golden gown shimmering in the rays of the setting sun. "His Grace seems so happy today," she said, her voice like honey as she glided towards him. "Is there some good news?"

Derek laughed, a warm, indulgent sound. "The only good news is seeing you, Senna. The opening is a triumph." He held up his glass. "Come, have a drink with me."

Pleased, Senna moved to the decanter, pouring herself a glass of the same dark wine. She raised it. "To our success," she said, her eyes locked on his.

Their glasses clinked in a toast. But just as Derek was about to lift the glass to his lips, a commotion erupted outside the door. Shouting, the sound of a struggle.

"Your Grace! Your Grace, please! I must see him!"

The doors burst open, revealing two of the establishment’s large guards, their faces red with effort, trying to restrain a woman who was fighting them like a wild animal. It was Lily. Her hair was a matted, tangled mess, her simple maid’s dress was torn at the shoulder, and her face was streaked with dirt and tears. She looked as though she had run all the way from the estate.

She broke free from their grasp and fell, stumbling, to the floor at Derek’s feet.

"Your Grace, please!" she sobbed, her hands grasping at the hem of his coat. "Please, you must save my lady!"

The wine glass dropped from Derek’s hand. It shattered on the floor, the dark red wine splashing across the expensive rug like a pool of fresh blood.

The facade did not just drop; it was annihilated. He shot to his feet, his chair scraping violently backward. His face was a mask of cold, sudden terror.

"What happened to Marissa?" he demanded, his voice a low, sharp command that silenced the entire room, even the distant music seeming to fade.

"She’s in trouble, Your Grace!" Lily wept, her body shaking. "Deep trouble! They... they’ve accused her of murder! They say Miss Lorena is dead, and... and they found evidence! A piece of my lady’s dress! The Dowager has taken back her authority. She... she’s trapped in the ancestral hall, and they’re waiting for you to come and be the judge!"

Derek did not wait to hear another word. He looked at Ian, his face a mask of cold, white-hot fury. "Let’s go. To the estate. Now."

He strode from the room, Ian on his heels. They swept past the stunned, gaping guards, together with the weeping, stumbling Lily. They were gone in a matter of seconds.

Senna stood alone in the room, the party she had planned, her great triumph, still raging in the hall below her. Her own wine glass was still held, half-raised, in her hand. Her perfect smile had faded, replaced by a cold, hard, and deeply bitter resentment. She stared at the spilled wine on the floor.

"It’s that Marissa again," she whispered to the empty, silent room.