Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 295 - Two Hundred And Ninety Four

Derek’s study was always a sanctuary of silence, insulated from the rest of the world by thick stone walls and rows upon rows of leather-bound books. The only sounds were the scratching of a quill against parchment, a dry, rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch, and the occasional pop of the dying fire in the massive stone hearth.

Derek sat hunched over his massive oak desk, a fortress of wood surrounded by towers of paper. The only light came from a single oil lamp, its flame flickering low, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. He rubbed his temples, his fingers stained with black ink, leaving a smudge on his skin. His eyes were heavy, burning with the strain of reading tiny script for hours.

He was completely engrossed in his work. He was reading a report from the northern tenants about the grain stores, calculating the yield against the expected demand. He frowned, dipping his quill into the inkwell again to make a note in the margin. The inkwell was nearly dry.

The world outside the study had ceased to exist for him. He didn’t hear the wind howling outside, rattling the window panes. He didn’t hear the soft click of the heavy door handle turning. He didn’t even notice the change in the air pressure as the door opened and someone stepped inside, bringing with them a scent that was sweeter than old paper.

He just kept writing, his brow furrowed in concentration, lost in the numbers and the responsibilities of being the Grand Duke.

Marissa stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him.

She held a heavy silver tray in her hands. On it sat a bowl of steaming chicken soup, a loaf of crusty bread, a wedge of sharp cheese, and a small pot of herbal tea. The smell of the food wafted through the room, rich and savory, mixing with the scent of dust and ink, but Derek was too deep in his focus to smell it.

She smiled softly. He looked tired. His hair, usually neatly combed back, was a mess where he had run his hands through it in frustration. His cravat was undone, hanging loosely around his neck like a white scarf. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the strong forearms she loved. He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world, and he looked beautiful to her.

She walked silently across the thick, Persian rug. Her silk slippers made no sound. She moved like a ghost, or a dream. She reached the small stool near his desk and set the tray down with a soft clink of silver on wood.

Derek didn’t move. He didn’t look up. He turned a page, his eyes scanning the columns of figures, muttering something about "barley prices."

Marissa straightened up. She adjusted the collar of her white silk robe. She took a step closer to the desk, until her shadow fell across the page he was reading.

"My love."

A familiar voice he loved so much rang in his head. It cut through the fog of numbers and stress like a clear bell on a winter morning.

Derek flinched. His hand jerked, causing the quill to skitter across the paper, leaving a long, black streak of ink. He blinked, shaking his head as if waking up from a deep sleep.

He looked up.

His eyes widened. Standing there, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the lamplight, was Marissa.

She looked like a vision. She was wearing a long, white silk robe tied at the waist with a simple sash. Her hair was loose, falling in dark, shiny waves around her shoulders, framing her face like a halo. Her face was fresh and clean, scrubbed of the makeup she had worn earlier. She looked soft. She looked like home.

"Mari?" He said, his voice rough from disuse. It came out as a croak.

He stood up from his seat immediately, his chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He felt a sudden rush of guilt. He hadn’t meant to ignore her. He hadn’t even realized she was there. He had promised to be more attentive, and here he was, burying himself in work again.

Marissa looked at him. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to look stern, but her eyes were warm. She nodded toward the tray she had placed on the stool.

"I heard you haven’t eaten," she said, her voice sounding serious and a little angry. "Mrs. Alma told me you sent the dinner tray back untouched. And it is late, Derek. Very late. You cannot run an estate on air."

Derek looked at the tray. He smelled the soup now—rosemary and chicken—and his stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl that echoed in the quiet room. He realized he was starving. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

He looked past her, toward the tall window behind the desk. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, but he could see a sliver of darkness pressing against the glass.

"It’s actually dark," he muttered, surprised. He blinked. It was almost midnight.

He turned back to her, running his ink-stained hand through his messy hair, making it stand up even more.

"I lost track of time," Derek admitted, looking sheepish. "I truly did not know it was this late. I thought it was still evening."

He gestured helplessly to the piles of paper on his desk, trying to defend himself against her scolding.

"I had a lot of things that required my seal and consent," he explained, his voice rushing. "The stewards sent the reports late from the southern provinces. Winter is ending, Mari. The frost is melting. I have to prepare for spring and the planting season. The contracts for the seeds need to be signed by morning, or the shipments will be delayed, and the farmers will suffer. And the river barges at Strathmore... Carlos left them in a mess... I am in the last stage of solving it all..."

He picked up a piece of parchment, waving it slightly as if it were evidence.

"And the trade routes," he continued, rambling, trying to justify his absence from their bed. "I have to review the taxes on the new trade routes of Denver before the King’s council meets next week. If I don’t catch the errors now, the treasury will lose thousands. And..."

As he was explaining himself, pouring out his excuses and his worries, Marissa moved.

She didn’t say anything. She just reached for the knot of the sash around her waist.

Derek stopped talking. His mouth stayed open, but the words died in his throat.