Ashlyn stood in the center of her disaster. Her chest heaved with a mixture of panic and fury.
Her plan—her perfect plan to frame her sister—was crumbling into dust right before her eyes and it seemed Marissa was in control.
Ashlyn pointed a shaking, accusing finger at Marissa. Her voice was shrill, desperate to salvage the narrative she had built.
"You!" Ashlyn shouted, her voice echoing in the cluttered room. "You dare steal from my room! You broke in! You attacked me! I caught you red-handed!"
Marissa chuckled. It was a light, airy sound that seemed completely out of place in the wrecked room. It was the laugh of someone watching a child tell a bad lie. She shook her head slowly.
"Don't jest, sister," Marissa said calmly.
She gestured gracefully to the woman standing beside her, holding the lantern high.
"Look closely," Marissa instructed, her voice steady. "Mrs. Alma is here. The head housekeeper. The most trusted servant of the Dowager Duchess."
