André and Vivienne were still seated on his bed. The room was quiet, heavy with that strange tension that always hung between them like a rope pulled too tight. André’s hand held her left wrist delicately, almost like it was made of glass. He kept pressing his lips against it, slow, deliberate kisses, the kind of kisses a gentleman would give his beloved.
"The bracelet suits you," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, as though every word was honey sliding off his tongue. His lips brushed her skin again. "So beautiful."
Vivienne’s blood was boiling so hard inside her veins she thought she might burst into flas right there. She wanted to snatch her wrist back and slap him with it. But her face—her damn face—smiled sweetly at him instead, all soft eyes and fake warmth. Her fingers rose to tuck a strand of his dark hair behind his ear, the gesture so tender it made her want to throw up.
"You think so?" she asked in the kind of syrupy tone she swore she’d never used in her entire life. She sounded like one of those fake, perfect noble ladies who giggled behind fans and spent all day waiting for n to notice them.
André’s eyes glittered. "Of course." He kissed her wrist again, lingering this ti. "How could anything not suit you?"
Inside her head, Vivienne was screaming. Because I don’t belong in this madhouse, you lunatic. But her lips curved, her head tilted like she was falling for him, and she even sighed a little. She was going to hell for this performance.
André leaned back a little, still holding her wrist loosely. "I have to tend to the docunts in my study." He sighed like this was the saddest thing in the world, like leaving her side was breaking his poor, fragile heart. "Give maybe four... no, three hours to finish."
Vivienne almost clapped at that. Three hours of freedom away from his madness. Maybe she’d even get to sleep. But then his voice cut through her fantasy.
"Since I love you," he said softly, his lips twitching in a smile, "I’ll try to make it two."
Her fake smile froze on her face. Her soul left her body. She wanted to scream into the heavens. This has to be a joke.
He brushed his thumb across her knuckles as though she were the most delicate, precious woman in the world. "Go to your room and wait for , my love. And make sure to eat well. You’ll need your energy."
Vivienne’s eyes widened. What the fuck.
He leaned closer, his smile sly now. "We have a lot of fun things to do later. Perhaps..." His lips brushed her hand again, his voice a whisper that slid down her spine. "Perhaps you will tie up tonight."
Vivienne’s brain exploded. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck— Her face stayed angelic though, lips curving in that perfect sweet smile. Inside, she was panicking so hard she wanted to dig a grave for herself under the bed and just die.
André smirked, clearly knowing he was taunting her, clearly savoring the way her eyes widened just a little too much. He kissed her hands one last ti like the perfect gentleman in so fairytale, then released her gently.
Vivienne stood up and walked toward her room in absolute brain damage. Her legs moved like they weren’t her own. Her head felt like a broken pot. Inside she was screaming, outside she looked like a delicate maiden floating out of the room, graceful and sweet.
This has to be a joke, she thought over and over again as she walked down the hall. This has to be so kind of fever dream. God, wake up. I can’t do this.
Two hours later, Vivienne was in her room, and the real hell began.
She was dressed in a cream dress. Not just any dress. A beautiful, elegant, absurdly perfect cream dress that shimred like sunlight when she moved. Too beautiful. Too flawless. It fit her like it had been sewn on her body, hugging her waist, falling softly around her legs, delicate lace brushing her skin. She looked like sothing out of a nobleman’s dream.
Her hair was styled perfectly too, pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Not a strand out of place. Her face was glowing like she was ready to attend a ball where five dukes would propose to her at once.
She looked like a duchess.
And she was pacing around her room like a wild animal in a cage.
Her eyes kept darting to the mirror, and every ti she looked, she wanted to vomit. She stopped in front of it, gripping the edge of the table, her chest heaving.
"What the fuck is this," she whispered. Her reflection looked back at her, flawless and terrifying. "What the actual fuck is this."
She pointed at herself. "I look like a doll. A doll, do you hear ? A perfect little maiden waiting for callers. What the fuck."
Her hands flew up, tugging at the bun, but it didn’t even move. Whoever styled her hair had used black magic.
She spun around, pacing faster, muttering under her breath. "I cannot sit here like this. I can’t. Sitting here waiting for our precious mad duke to... to... fuck ." She spat the words out like poison. "This is madness. Utter madness."
Her steps grew sharper. She was practically stomping now, the expensive fabric swishing around her like it was mocking her. "I cannot stay here any longer. I’ll lose my fucking mind. I can’t even walk properly. That demonic man fucked the shit out of yesterday. I cannot walk, I swear, I cannot walk."
She pressed her hand to her forehead, groaning. "I need to get out of here. I need a break. A fucking break. Just one mont of peace."
She whirled to the door, her decision made. "I am not sitting here dressed like a noble cow waiting to be slaughtered. No. I am leaving."
She yanked the door open and slipped out, cream dress trailing behind her like a ghost.
In his study, André was still at his desk, bent over a mountain of docunts. His hand moved smoothly, signing parchnt after parchnt, his face calm, collected, the perfect duke at work.
A knock ca at the door.
"Enter," he said without looking up.
Bernard stepped inside.
André raised his eyes slowly. "What is it?"
Bernard hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Your Grace. It’s that woman."
André leaned back in his chair, his lips twitching in amusent. "What is it now? Did she try to steal a porcelain vase or what?"
Bernard shook his head. "No. She left."
André didn’t even blink. He picked up another docunt, dipping his quill. "Okay."
Bernard stared. "Aren’t you worried about it, Your Grace?"
André finally looked up, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, unnerving calm. "Why would I be?"
Bernard shifted on his feet. "Because... she left. She could be—"
André cut him off smoothly. "She will return, so I am not bothered."
Bernard frowned. "Are you certain?"
André smiled then, a sharp, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He dipped his quill again, ink dripping slowly onto the parchnt. His voice was low, steady, terrifyingly calm.
"Yes," he said. "A dog always returns to its leash. Whether it likes it or not."
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