Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 291 - Two Hundred And Ninety

Princess Dahlia stepped out of the private room, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her. She walked toward Marissa and Lady Edwina, her posture rigid, her chin held high.

She was no longer the furious wife who had twisted the Prince’s ear. She was no longer the woman who had thrown a coat at a naked man. She had put her mask back on—the perfect, polite, porcelain face of the Crown Princess. But the mask was cracked. Her eyes were still red-rimmed with anger, and her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt.

She stopped in front of them. She smiled. It was a tight, brittle smile, like glass about to shatter under pressure.

"It is getting late," Dahlia said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor of deep exhaustion beneath it. "The night air is cold, and I fear I have kept you both too long. Let us reschedule our supper for another day. I find I have lost my appetite."

She didn’t mention the shouting. She didn’t mention the naked woman in the bed. She pretended, with the iron will of royalty, that nothing untoward had happened, that the world was still ordered and polite.

Lady Edwina, who had seen everything from the slap and the screams through the door, nodded quickly. She understood the code of the court: ignore the cracks until the wall falls down.

"Of course, Your Highness," Edwina said, stepping to Dahlia’s side, offering her arm for support. "Rest is important. We can dine anytime. Your health comes first."

Marissa curtsied deeply, her head bowed in respect. She kept her face neutral, hiding the satisfaction that hummed in her veins.

"Goodnight, Your Highness," Marissa said softly. "Safe travels."

Dahlia nodded once, a regal dismissal, and walked away down the corridor. She leaned heavily on her friend, her steps slow, leaving the scene of her humiliation behind her.

Marissa straightened up. She watched them go, a flicker of genuine sympathy in her chest. Dahlia was a victim of Liam’s greed just as much as anyone else. But the sympathy was fleeting. The game wasn’t over yet. The King was still on the board.

The door to the private room opened again.

Prince Liam stepped out.

He looked nothing like the arrogant predator

who had summoned Marissa earlier that evening. He looked nothing like the man who had threatened to kill her husband.

His velvet coat was buttoned wrong, the collar twisted. His hair, usually sleek and perfect, was disheveled, standing up in tufts. And his face... his face was a ruin.

His left cheek was swollen and turning a deep, angry red, the imprint of Dahlia’s hand clearly visible on his pale skin. His ear was bright red, throbbing from where she had twisted it. His lip was split, a small bead of blood drying in the corner. He smelled of sour wine and sweat.

He saw Marissa standing there. He stopped.

His eyes narrowed. They were filled with a mixture of burning shame and impotent, white-hot rage. He knew she had seen him. He knew she had orchestrated this.

Marissa didn’t look away. She didn’t cower.

She smirked.

It was a slow, deliberate curling of her lips that spoke volumes. It was a smile that said, I won.

"Oh my, Your Highness!" Marissa exclaimed.

Her voice was pitched high, full of fake, wide-eyed concern. She took a step closer, inspecting his injuries like a curious child looking at a bruised fruit.

"How did you get those bruises?" she asked innocently. She pointed a gloved finger at his swollen cheek. "They look painful. Very fresh."

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a smile that was not hidden at all. Her eyes danced with mockery.

"Could it be..." she whispered loudly, her voice echoing in the empty hall, "that you missed your step in the dark? Did you fall flat on your face? Or did you perhaps run into a... wall?"

She tilted her head.

"A wall named Dahlia?" she asked sweetly.

Liam stared at her. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles cracking. The veins in his neck bulged. He knew she was laughing at him.

"You," Liam hissed. His voice was a low growl, vibrating with hate. "You are the one who drugged me. You brought the Princess here. You sent the invitation. You led her to the door. You unlocked it."

Marissa dropped the act.

The innocent gasp vanished. Her face settled into a look of cold, terrifying calm. Her eyes, usually so warm when she looked at Derek, were now chips of flint.

"When you threatened me," Marissa said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was far more dangerous than his shout. "When you threatened to destroy my husband... when you held my divorce papers... did I ever imagine you would have someone you fear, too?"

She stepped closer to him, invading his space just as he had invaded hers earlier.

"I thought you were untouchable, Liam," she mocked. "I thought you were the wolf. But it seems even a wolf fears the lioness."

She smiled. It was a smile that mocked his power, his masculinity, his very existence.

"It seems," she added, her voice dripping with disdain, "that you are not the master of your own house. You are just a boy who got caught stealing sweets."

Liam’s face turned a deep, ugly shade of purple. He stepped forward, trying to use his height to intimidate her, trying to regain some scrap of power.

"Marissa," he spat. "You will remember this debt. You think you have won a victory today? You have only bought yourself a delay."

He leaned down, his breath hot and wine-stained on her face.

"I will settle it with you," he promised. "Sooner or later. I will take everything from you. And when I do, you will wish you had let me take you willingly. You will wish you had submitted."

He tried to push past her, to escape the hallway and his shame. He walked past her in anger, deliberately brushing his shoulder hard against hers, trying to knock her off balance, a petty act of violence.

Marissa didn’t stumble. She stood firm, rooted to the spot like an oak tree.

As he walked away, storming down the hall toward the back stairs to avoid being seen by the commoners, Marissa scoffed.

She reached up with her gloved hand. She dusted the shoulder of her dress where he had touched her. She brushed the fabric vigorously, as if he were dirt, as if his touch had left a visible stain.

"Pathetic," she whispered.