The suggestion was not a request; it was a judgment. An exile cloaked in the soft, respectable language of a prayer vigil.
Marissa's head was still bowed, the heavy weight of Derek's coat a surprising, warm burden on her shoulders. A small, bitter chuckle escaped her lips, a sound of pure, cold irony in the grim, candle-lit room. She looked up, her gaze bypassing the victorious Lorena, and settled on the Dowager Duchess.
"No matter how honored the title of Grand Duchess is," she said, her voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the room, "it seems that to the Thompson family, I am still an outsider."
A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell. Beatrice had the grace to look pained, her eyes faltering. Lorena, still kneeling, kept her head bowed to hide the triumphant smirk she could no longer contain.
"But," Marissa continued, her voice hardening with a resolve that was not obedience, but a strategic choice, "if this is Grandmother's will, then I will go."
