Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 261 - Two Hundred And Sixty

The Thompson estate was draped in white. It was a week since the news of Derek’s death had arrived, and the manor had been transformed into a house of mourning.

Heavy white ribbons hung from the iron gates, the pillars, and the stone lions guarding the entrance. They fluttered in the cold wind, like bandages on a wound that wouldn’t heal.

Marissa walked out of the main doors. She was wearing a simple grey dress, her hair pulled back tightly. She hadn’t slept properly in seven days. Her eyes were shadowed, her face pale and drawn.

She stopped at the top of the steps. She saw the ribbons. She saw the white cloth covering the bushes. She saw the funeral wreath on the door.

Something inside her snapped.

It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t grief. It was a hot, blinding rage that surged through her veins like fire.

"What audacity!" Marissa shouted.

Her voice cracked, echoing across the courtyard. She ran down the steps, her movements jerky and frantic. She reached the nearest pillar, where a long white ribbon was tied.

She grabbed it with both hands. She didn’t untie it. She ripped it.

Rrrrip.

The sound of tearing fabric was loud in the quiet courtyard.

"Who ordered these funeral decorations?" she screamed, throwing the torn cloth onto the gravel. She looked around wildly, her chest heaving. "Who dared to do this?"

A decorator, a man on a ladder who was hanging a wreath on the gate, looked down. He was terrified. He had never seen the Grand Duchess like this. She looked wild.

"Lord Carlos commanded immediate funeral preparations, Your Grace," the man stammered, clutching his hammer. "He said it was time."

Marissa stared up at him. Her eyes blazed.

"Funeral preparations without a body?" she yelled. "Are you all mad? Have you lost your minds?"

She grabbed another ribbon from a bush and tore it down, the thorns scratching her palms.

"He is not dead!" she cried. "How can you bury a man who’s body hasn’t be found? How can you mourn who is still alive?"

The decorator climbed down the ladder, shaking.

"He... Lord Carlos said he wanted to help His Grace attain paradise," the man whispered, backing away from her. "He said the soul needs rest."

"Paradise?" Marissa spat the word. "Outrageous. He does not rule this household! I do! I am the Grand Duchess!"

She pointed a shaking finger at the gate.

"Take it down!" she commanded. "Take it all down! Every ribbon! Every wreath! I want this place clean! Now!"

The decorators hesitated. They looked at each other, unsure whether to obey the grieving widow or the brother.

Marissa saw their hesitation. It fueled her madness.

"Fine!" she shrieked. "I will do it myself!"

She lunged at the gate. She grabbed a handful of white silk and pulled. It was tied tight. She yanked it, her fingernails digging into the fabric, tearing her skin. She didn’t care. She felt no pain. She only felt the need to erase the evidence of his death.

She moved to the next one. And the next. She was a whirlwind of destruction, tearing down the symbols of mourning with her bare hands.

She scratched her arms on the iron bars. She cut her finger on a wire. Blood welled up, bright red against the white silk, but she didn’t stop.

"He is coming back," she muttered to herself, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "He promised. He is coming back. He is not dead. He is not dead."

A group of servants had gathered near the kitchen entrance. They watched her with wide, fearful eyes. They had never seen their mistress lose control.

"Since the death of His Grace," a maid whispered to the cook, "Her Grace hasn’t been herself. She talks to the air. She paces all night."

"I feel sad for her," the cook replied, wiping her hands on her apron. "She is slowly losing touch with reality. Look at her. She is fighting the wind. I am afraid she is losing her sanity. Grief has broken her mind."

Mrs. Alma, the head housekeeper, came out of the house. She saw the scene. She saw the whispers.

"Don’t you have anything better to do?" Mrs. Alma snapped at the servants. "Get back to work! Or I will have you all dismissed!"

The servants scrambled away, fleeing the housekeeper’s wrath.

Mrs. Alma hurried down the steps. She walked toward Marissa, who was currently wrestling with a heavy wreath, her hands bleeding.

"Your Grace!" Mrs. Alma called out.

Marissa didn’t hear her. She pulled the wreath down, throwing it into the dirt and stomping on it.

"He is not dead!" Marissa screamed at the crushed flowers.

Mrs. Alma reached her. She grabbed Marissa’s shoulders from behind, holding her firm.

"Your Grace, stop!" Mrs. Alma said, her voice firm.

Marissa spun around, ready to fight. Her eyes were wild, her hair falling loose around her face. She raised her hand as if to strike, but then she saw who it was.

She froze. Her chest heaved.

"Mrs. Alma," she panted. "They... they are burying him. Why do they want to do that when he’s still alive."

Mrs. Alma looked at Marissa’s bleeding hands. She looked at the wildness in her eyes. Her heart broke for the young woman.

"Please, child," Mrs. Alma said softly. "The Dowager is already ill. She has taken to her bed with grief. We don’t want you to be ill, too."

She took Marissa’s hands in hers, careful of the cuts.

"Don’t harm your health," Mrs. Alma pleaded. "Please. We still need you. The estate needs you. Ryan needs you." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

At the mention of Ryan, the madness seemed to recede. The fire in Marissa’s eyes died down, replaced by a deep, crushing exhaustion.

She blinked. Her breathing slowed. She looked down at her hands. She saw the blood dripping onto the gravel. She saw the scratches.

"I..." Marissa whispered. "I hurt myself."

She looked up at Mrs. Alma. She saw the worry in the old woman’s eyes. She saw the pity.

She realized what she looked like. A madwoman destroying things in her own house.

"I understand," Marissa said, her voice hollow. "I am sorry for making you worry."

She pulled her hands away gently.

"Have them take it down," she said, gesturing vaguely at the remaining decorations. "I cannot look at it. Not yet."

"I will handle it," Mrs. Alma promised. "Go inside. Rest."

"I’m going to my room," Marissa said.

She turned to leave. She took a step, then stopped. A thought pierced through her fog.

"Where is Carlos?" Marissa asked. Her voice was sharp again.

Mrs. Alma hesitated.

"He left early this morning," Mrs. Alma replied. " He should be back by now."

Marissa nodded. She didn’t ask where. She knew. He was going to claim his prize.

She walked into the house, her head down. She walked through the grand foyer, leaving a small trail of red drops on the polished floor.