CHAPTER 145: EDIT

It was around midnight. The entire chateau was asleep.

The halls were quiet. The candles had gone out long ago. The only light came from the moon sneaking through the curtains.

André and Vivienne were wrapped in each other’s arms like a sweet, perfect couple. They looked peaceful. Almost innocent. Like they didn’t just commit a crazy sin that would have made the angels cover their eyes.

Vivienne’s dark hair was messy against his chest. Her lips were slightly parted, her breathing slow and soft. Her hand rested on his shoulder like she trusted him. Which was ridiculous because she didn’t. Not even close.

Her face looked calm, her body completely relaxed. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was something else — maybe she was tired of pretending she didn’t want him.

André’s hand was around her waist, holding her like she was something fragile. He looked asleep too. But he wasn’t. His eyes opened slowly in the dark.

He watched her face quietly, the soft glow from the moon hitting her cheek. For a moment, his chest felt warm. She looked peaceful. He almost smiled. Then that warmth vanished.

He stared longer. His eyes darkened, and that smile never came. He slowly loosened his hand from her body, careful not to wake her. He sat up. The bed creaked a little, and she moved but didn’t open her eyes.

He whispered in his head, Stay asleep.

He stood up, naked at first, reaching for his shirt on the floor. He dressed silently, every button slow, every movement quiet. Then he slipped out of her room.

The hallway was cold. His footsteps echoed faintly on the marble floor. He didn’t carry a candle. He didn’t need one. He knew every step of the chateau, every hidden door, every path where no servant ever dared to go.

He walked past the long corridor of portraits — his ancestors, stiff and proud, staring down at him with judgment in their painted eyes. He didn’t look back at them. He never did.

He walked until he reached the painting room. It was silent, the smell of old paint still heavy in the air. He entered.

The moonlight from the tall window fell across the room, making the colors of unfinished paintings glow faintly. He walked straight to the corner — to the large painting that covered the door. His hand brushed against the frame. For a moment, he hesitated. His chest felt tight. Then he pushed it aside.

Behind it was a small wooden door, almost invisible if you didn’t know it was there. He opened it and stepped inside.

The room was small and empty. Nothing but dust, broken boxes, and old containers of paint. A few spider webs hung in the corners. It smelled of wood and something old — a smell that felt too familiar.

He stood there, staring into the darkness. His hand trembled slightly. His breathing slowed.

And then his eyes lost their focus. The room around him disappeared.

In his head, he was six again.

He could see the room — not dusty and empty, but alive. He could hear his mother’s voice, soft and frightened.

He remembered her holding his small hands so tightly that her fingers shook. He remembered her perfume, that gentle scent of roses and paint. She was trembling, but she smiled anyway, trying to be brave for him.

He could still hear himself whispering, "I’m scared, Mother." His voice was so small back then. So helpless.

She smiled at him — that soft, beautiful smile that used to make everything seem okay. "My darling," she said gently, brushing his hair away from his face, "everything is going to be alright. Just stay here, alright? No matter what happens, don’t come out. Promise me."

He had nodded quickly, tears already burning his eyes. He didn’t understand why she was shaking. He didn’t understand the shouting from outside the door. He just wanted her to stay.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. Her hands lingered on his face for a second, trembling. Then she smiled again, even though her eyes were full of fear. "Remember," she whispered, "don’t make a sound. Don’t come out. Everything will be okay."

She closed the door.

He remembered sitting there in the dark. The smell of paint and turpentine was strong. His heart was beating too fast. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. He did what she said. He didn’t move.

Then came the noise.

The shouting. His father’s voice, loud and angry. The crash of something breaking. And then — his mother’s scream.

It was sharp. It was short. And it didn’t come again.

He had covered his ears with his hands, but the sound stayed in his head.

He remembered wanting it all to stop. He remembered whispering to himself, Make it stop. Please make it stop.

He had waited for hours. Or maybe minutes. He didn’t remember. Time didn’t exist that night. When the silence finally came, it was worse than the screams.

He never saw her again after that.

Now, in the present, André stood in the same room, grown, powerful, rich — yet still that terrified little boy trapped in the dark.

He stared at the empty floor where his mother had told him to stay. His eyes softened, then broke. He whispered to himself, "I should have never been born."

The words came out heavy, shaking slightly. His throat burned. His voice cracked a little as he continued quietly, "Maybe she would have been happy."

He laughed softly, the sound dry, bitter. It wasn’t funny, but his body didn’t know what else to do.

He pressed a hand against the wall, breathing deeply, like the air itself was choking him. His chest rose and fell, slow but uneven.

"I’m sorry, Mother," he said finally, his voice low and broken. "I’m so sorry."

The room felt colder now. The silence was deep — the kind that seeps into your bones. His eyes filled with tears, but none of them fell. They stayed there, heavy, refusing to move, like even d were tired.