Chapter 256: Chapter Two Hundred And Fifty Six
The great council room of the Carson establishment was a chamber built for power. A single, colossal table stretched down its length, polished to a mirror shine.
Sunlight struggled to pierce the tall, stained-glass windows, leaving the room in a state of perpetual, serious twilight. Seated around the table were the family’s most trusted advisors and its wealthiest investors, their faces grim and expectant.
At the far end of the room, huddled together like a flock of vultures, were the pamphleteers, their eyes gleaming, their quills poised over fresh sheets of parchment, hungry for a story to sell.
The heavy doors at the head of the room swung open. The Dowager Duchess Elena entered, and the low murmur of conversation immediately died. She moved with a regal grace that defied her age, her back straight, her head held high. By her side, a step behind, was her grandson, Eric, his expression somber and resolute. He was a silent, solid presence, a clear signal of the new order.
Elena took her place at the head of the table. She did not sit. She stood, surveying the faces before her, her gaze missing nothing. The silence in the room was absolute, so thick one could feel its weight.
When she spoke, her voice was not loud, but it filled the vast space with its elegant, unwavering authority. "Today, I stand before you concerning the recent, tragic accident that happened at one of our workshops. I am not here to offer excuses. I am here to tell the truth."
A frantic scratching sound erupted from the back of the room as the pamphleteers’ quills began to fly across their pages, desperate to capture every word.
"The death of Mr. Noah Kirk," Elena continued, her voice clear and steady, "was not the result of his own carelessness. It was the result of an extreme production schedule leading to a lack of proper safety protocols at the workshop. It was, therefore, entirely the fault of this establishment."
A collective, soft gasp went through the room. It was a shocking admission, a level of public responsibility unheard of from a great noble house.
"However," she went on, her voice hardening slightly, "the acting head of this establishment chose not to accept this responsibility. Instead, he framed the victim as responsible for his own death and forced the grieving family into settling with a paltry sum and a lie."
The scratching of the quills grew more feverish. This was the scandal they had been hoping for.
Elena’s expression softened, a deep sadness entering her eyes. "This accident has made me reflect on what made me start this establishment so many years ago. It was to provide safe, quality, and comfortable wears for the public. A simple, honest goal." She let out a soft sigh, a sound of genuine regret. "I have reflected deeply on how I have failed this establishment. How we have failed. We claimed to be making safe, quality, and comfortable wears for all, but our eyes were blind to the very person standing in front of us."
She paused, letting the weight of her confession settle over the room. "Therefore, we will be taking immediate action. We will review the entire spring line collection. Every dye, every bolt of fabric will be tested. In the worst-case scenario, if we cannot guarantee its safety and quality, we will consider starting afresh."
She saw the alarmed looks on the investors’ faces but continued without faltering. "Furthermore, we will visit the surviving family of Mr. Kirk. We will apologize for our failings, and we will offer a proper, just compensation for their loss."
She then gestured to the man standing silently by her side. "Duke Eric, here, will be in charge of it all. He will oversee the investigation, the review of the collection, and all communications with the Kirk family."
Eric gave a quick, respectful bow to the council.
Elena looked around the room one last time, her gaze meeting the eyes of every person there. "Once again, on behalf of the Carson family and this establishment, we sincerely apologize."
She said nothing more. As she stood there, a wave of murmurs began to fly around the room. The story was bigger and more shocking than any of them could have imagined.
The next morning, the sun flood into Anne’s lavishly decorated room at Willow’s Creek. She sat in a plush armchair by the window, sipping a cup of expensive, fragrant tea from a fine china cup. A self-satisfied little hum escaped her lips. Soon, this small manor would be a distant memory. Soon, she would be Duchess Anne Carson.
A maid entered with a curtsy, carrying the morning pamphlet on a small silver tray. "For you, my lady."
Anne took it with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Thank you, you may go."
As the maid left, Anne giggled to herself. "Maybe my wedding has been announced," she mused, unfolding the cheap paper with an elegant flourish. She took another sip of tea, her eyes scanning the front page for her name, for Philip’s.
Her gaze fell upon the bold, inky headline. Her smile froze. Her eyes widened, scanning the text below, the words blurring together in a nonsensical jumble. She read it again, her brain struggling to process the information. Establishment at fault... Acting head frames victim... Duke Eric to take charge...
The teacup rattled in its saucer as her hand began to shake. A hot splash of tea spilled onto her fingers, but she didn’t feel it. She spat the remaining tea in her mouth back into the cup with a disgusted splutter.
"What is this?" she whispered, her voice a strangled sound. She read the article again, her eyes frantic now. There was no mention of a wedding. There was only talk of scandal, of justice, of Philip’s disgrace. "What about Philip? Is it over for him now? Just like that?"
She shot up from her chair, the pamphlet crushed in her fist. She began to walk around the room, her movements agitated, like a caged animal. "What about my wedding?" she hissed to the empty room. "What about me? The baby?" Her voice rose with each question, spiraling into pure panic. "What will I do now?"
Her eyes landed on the beautiful, delicate tea set, a symbol of the life she had been promised, the life that was now slipping through her fingers. A low, animalistic growl built in her throat. With a sudden, violent scream, she grabbed the silver tray and hurled it across the room. The teapot, teacup, and saucer smashed against the far wall, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, brown tea splattering across the silk wallpaper like blood.
She stood there, breathing heavily, her chest heaving, her knuckles white. The ruin of her plans, the ruin of her future, was all she could see.
"What is to become of me!" she screamed, her voice a raw, desperate cry that echoed in the beautifully decorated, and suddenly very empty, room.