A fire crackled softly in the enormous marble fireplace at the Thompson family's drawing room but it did little to warm the cold tension that filled the space. Four people stood before the King's Herald. In his hands, he held another large scroll, sealed with the king's own wax crest after reading the first one.
The Herald cleared his throat, the sound echoing unnaturally in the silence. He broke the seal with a sharp crack and unrolled the parchment. His voice was loud and formal, leaving no room for argument.
"A proclamation from His Royal Majesty, King Alistair the Fourth," he began. He looked first to Carlos Thompson, the younger of the two Thompson brothers, and his wife, Marissa Austen. Carlos stood tall, his expression serious. Marissa, beside him, held her hands clasped in front of her, her posture perfect.
The Herald's eyes fixed on them. "And to Carlos Thompson wife, Marissa Austen, from a prestigious family, virtuous and talented, gentle and kind. Henceforth, given the title Grand Duchess of Denver."
A soft gasp escaped Marissa's lips. Her eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and quiet joy, flickered towards her husband.
Carlos placed a reassuring hand on the small of her back. His face remained calm, but a deep sense of relief settled into his heart. It is done, he thought. Our future is secure.
Marissa's mind was a whirl. Grand Duchess? Me? It was a dream she had barely allowed herself to imagine. She thought of the responsibilities, the duties, but mostly, she felt a profound sense of gratitude. She and Carlos lowered their heads in perfect sync.
"As his majesty wishes," they said together, their voices clear and respectful.
Marissa performed a deep, graceful curtsy, the fabric of her simple gown whispering against the polished floor. Carlos gave a short, sharp bow from the waist. They held their positions for a moment, showing their complete submission to the king's will.
The Herald gave them a slight nod of approval before his gaze shifted. It moved past Carlos and Marissa, landing on the other couple in the room: Derek Thompson, the elder brother, and his wife, Ashlyn Austen, Marissa's own sister. The Herald's expression hardened, and the warmth, if there ever was any, vanished from his voice.
"And as for Ashlyn Austen," he read, his tone now like ice, "who exploits the commoners, preys on the less privileged, and has sullied herself, is unfit for the grand duchess position and should be immediately thrown out of the Thompson's household, stripped of her title and demoted to a commoner by his majesty's decree."
The words struck Ashlyn like a slap. The world seemed to tilt. No. This can't be happening. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs like an anxious bird trapped in a cage. Her eyes darted to her husband, Derek, pleading for him to say something, to deny it.
But Derek's face was a mask of cold indifference. He looked at her not as his wife, but as something unpleasant he needed to dispose of. He had known this was coming. The realization hit Ashlyn with a fresh wave of nausea. He had planned this.
Without a word, Derek reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out a folded set of documents. He did not hand them to her. He walked the few steps to the small table beside her and tossed the divorce papers onto its surface. The crisp sound of the paper hitting the wood was like a final nail in a coffin.
"From now on, our ties are severed," Derek said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. He looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Tears welled in Ashlyn's eyes, blurring her vision. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely pick up the quill that lay beside the papers. She saw the space for her signature, the final act that would erase her entire life. A tear splashed onto the page, smudging the dark ink. With a choked sob, she signed her name. Ashlyn Austen. No longer Ashlyn Thompson. No longer the Grand Duchess. Just… Ashlyn.
The Herald watched this exchange with a detached air. His duty was done. He turned to Carlos and Marissa. "Get ready for your coronation tomorrow."
Carlos bowed again. "We will be ready."
Marissa curtsied, her mind still trying to process the sudden, brutal change in her family's fortunes. She felt a pang of something for her sister, a flicker of pity, but it was quickly overshadowed by the gravity of her own new reality.
The Herald rolled up his scroll, tucked it under his arm, and left the drawing room without another glance at the disgraced woman. The heavy doors clicked shut behind him, sealing Ashlyn's fate.
For a moment, only the sound of Ashlyn's quiet weeping filled the room. Then, Derek's sharp voice cut through the air.
"Guards."
Two large men in the Thompson household uniform stepped forward from their posts by the door. They were built like bulls, their faces impassive.
"Throw her out of here," Derek commanded, gesturing dismissively with his hand.
"Derek, please," Ashlyn begged, her voice cracking. "Don't do this."
He turned his back on her. "I want her gone. Now."
The guards nodded. One grabbed her by the left arm, the other by the right. Her feet stumbled on the expensive rug as they hauled her from the room. They didn't care about her dignity. They dragged her through the long, ornate hallways she had walked as a mistress just minutes before.
Servants peeked from doorways, their faces a mixture of fear and curiosity, but they quickly looked away, not wanting to be associated with her fall.
They reached the massive front gates. With a grunt of effort, they shoved her out onto the cobbled street and pushed the heavy iron gates shut. The lock clicked into place with a sound of absolute finality.
Ashlyn scrambled to her feet, her dress now dirty. She ran to the gate, her fingers curling around the cold, black bars. "You can't do this to me!" she screamed, her voice raw with desperation. "Derek! You can't just toss me away! I am the Grand Duchess!"
She banged on the gate with her fists until her knuckles were sore and red. But no one answered her.