It was early evening. The sky was painted in soft gold and pale orange, and the air was thick with the sound of wings. The birds were flying back ho, their movents hurried and sharp, almost as if they were running away. It looked like they knew sothing terrible was about to unfold. It looked like they were bracing themselves for the madness that would soon fill the Rousseau chateau.
Vivienne stood just at the gates, frozen in place, staring at the towering iron like it was the gateway to hell. Maybe it really was. Maybe the devil lived inside and had been waiting for her all along, sharpening his teeth and his tongue.
She pressed her palms flat against her dress and took three deep breaths. Not one. Not two. Three. She closed her eyes and whispered to herself, "You can do this. You can fucking do this. You’re Vivienne Moreau, not so weak little lamb. You’re going to walk in there, smile like an angel, and survive whatever fresh madness that lunatic is already cooking."
Her chest tightened with dread. Her legs felt like stone. Still, she pushed herself forward, step by step, dragging her body through the gates as though she were being marched to her execution.
The mont she crossed the threshold into the chateau, she was greeted — no, ambushed — by a voice so sweet it could rot teeth.
"Vivienne!"
Her eyes snapped toward the source. Genevieve. The walking embodint of sugar, flowers, and everything nauseating. She was practically glowing, her smile so wide and sweet it made Vivienne’s stomach churn.
"Where have you been all morning?" Genevieve chirped, her voice dripping honey, her eyes wide with concern that didn’t look real.
Vivienne froze in place. Inside her head, her thoughts scread: God, can’t this bitch leave alone for five seconds? I’m not your elder sister. I don’t braid your hair, I don’t read you bedti stories, I don’t give a shit if you scraped your knee. Go braid a chicken’s feathers or count the cracks on the ceiling, just stop breathing in my direction.
But her face—her face was perfection. She smiled sweetly, her lips curving as if touched by heaven. "I had to go check on sothing," she said smoothly.
Her thoughts, however, refused to stay quiet. Check on sothing? What the fuck kind of excuse is that, Vivienne? What do you an check on sothing? Check on what? Oh, right. The floor. The sky. My sanity. Which, by the way, is dying, thanks to you, you stupid bitch.
Genevieve, of course, didn’t notice a thing. She clapped her hands together gently, tilting her head. "I think his grace is looking for you," she said with an innocent smile. "He’s currently in his study."
Vivienne’s stomach twisted. Of course he was. Of course the mad duke was sitting in his study, waiting like a spider in its web.
"Oh, God," she thought. Of course he’s looking for . Maybe he’s already writing my na with his blood on the walls. Maybe he’s carving hearts into his desk with ’Vivienne forever.’
Genevieve winked at her like they were sharing a secret. "Go on."
Vivienne’s face didn’t twitch. She forced a smile, a nod, and turned. Inside, her head was burning. Go on? Did you just wink at ? Who the fuck winks at another woman about walking into the devil’s den? What is this, a ga show?
Her steps toward the study were slow, dragging, each one heavier than the last. She muttered under her breath, "This has to be a joke. I can’t believe this. I swear if he starts with that ’my darling, my treasure’ bullshit, I’ll stab myself in the eye with a spoon."
anwhile, André had just left his study. His tall figure moved down the corridor side by side with Bernard. The duke’s pace was relaxed, his posture calm, like a man who had the whole world in his palm and knew it would never slip away. Bernard, on the other hand, looked like a tired shadow. His face was unreadable, drained, the kind of face that begged silently for five normal minutes.
They walked in silence until a servant approached hurriedly, bowing low. "Your grace. Miss Moreau has returned."
André’s lips curled imdiately. His head turned toward Bernard with that maddening smirk. "See? I told you she would return."
The servant added quickly, "She’s headed to your study already, your grace. To look for you."
André’s smirk deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Of course she is," he murmured. "My little thief can’t resist."
But then Bernard, of all people, spoke. His voice was calm, flat as usual, but there was a faint hitch in it. "Your grace."
André stopped walking, tilting his head slightly, still smiling. "What is it?"
Bernard’s eyes flickered once, almost reluctant. "If she’s in your study. That ans she’ll find—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
André’s smile didn’t falter. It only grew slower, sharper. His voice lowered, amused. "Go on, Bernard."
Bernard’s face remained the sa — stone, deadpan, tired. His voice, though steady, carried weight. "It ans she’ll find... what you left there."
For the first ti, silence fell heavy between them. The flickering torches along the corridor cast strange shadows across André’s face, making his smirk look darker, more dangerous.
André’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in delight. He tilted his head back slightly, laughing softly to himself, a low sound that was more unsettling than rage.
"She’ll find it, will she?" he said finally, voice like velvet soaked in poison. "Good. Let her."
Bernard’s face didn’t move. His eyes were half-lidded, tired. His silence scread the words he would never say aloud: I just want one peaceful day. Just one. Please.
André’s smirk sharpened further. His voice softened as though he were speaking to a lover, though his eyes glittered with sothing unholy. "Let her walk into my study. Let her find whatever she thinks she’s clever enough to see. It changes nothing. Because she’s mine. My darling thief will always co back to ."
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