CHAPTER 153: EDIT

Vivienne finally pushed herself up from the tangled sheets, her body aching slightly from the performance of affection she and André had put on for the past five minutes. Five fucking minutes of torture. Five fucking long, miserable minutes where she had to smile, coo, and act like she was in love with a man she simultaneously wanted dead. Every sigh she had faked, every lingering touch, felt like a betrayal of her own soul. Her limbs tingled, muscles sore in ways that reminded her all too well of how physical the act had been, how intimate, how completely maddening it was to be near him.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself from the nightmare, and shuffled to the vanity where her robe lay crumpled on the floor. God only knew how it ended up there, whether she had thrown it yesterday in frustration or André had tossed it like a lazy servant. Or it was blown by the wind. Either way, she snatched it up and wrapped it around herself with a little too much force, wishing it could shield her from his gaze—or better yet, make her disappear entirely. The silk slid against her skin, clinging in a way that reminded her far too much of what they’d just done. She shook her head violently. Focus, Vivienne. Breathe. Breathe Vivienne Moreau. Don’t die of your own arousal or rage. Just endure all this.

André stayed on the bed, sitting back on the pillows like a goddamn statue carved to worship her. His posture was perfectly casual, yet the intensity in his calm, tender eyes made her skin prickle, her stomach tighten, and a dangerous spark flare inside her. He looked like he was in love—or worse, like he was plotting a feast while smiling politely at the diners. That look—the look that twisted tenderness into a weapon—made her want to take the nearest lamp and throw it straight at his head. She didn’t know that what she was seeing wasn’t simple devotion. It was hunger. Pure, predatory hunger wrapped in satin and charm. And that realization made her want to strangle him with her own hands all the more.

Her fingers flexed, curling into fists under the robe, trying to will herself into something resembling composure. She adjusted the belt tightly around her waist, forcing the fabric to feel like armor rather than a reminder of the skin André had touched. A few breaths. She needed a few breaths to steady herself before the next horror struck.

A knock came at the door, deliberate, slow. Vivienne didn’t even bother hiding her irritation. "Come in," she called flatly, already rolling her eyes.

The door opened, and in shuffled Madame Lefevre, her expression somewhere between horror, shock, and a faint, confused reverence. The poor woman’s eyes went wide, mouth half-open, and she gulped audibly as her gaze landed on Vivienne tying her robe and André lounging beneath the sheets.

Vivienne’s brain nearly short-circuited at the expression on Lefevre’s face. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why is this hag acting like she just walked in on the Devil himself? This is at least the hundredth time you’ve seen me naked with him. The ants in this fucking chateau know we’ve been fucking. Do you want me to wave a banner next time or something?

"Your Grace, the family jeweller and dressmaker are here for the fitting," Lefevre stammered, her hands wringing, her gaze flickering nervously between Vivienne and André like she was expecting the roof to collapse.

André, calm as a saint but twice as dangerous, smiled without shifting an inch. "Ah, I see. We will be down in a few minutes."

Vivienne froze. We? We? Does he mean we? Her cheeks warmed, a blush she hated, her pulse thudding embarrassingly fast. How about you go fuck a broom or something, you insufferable doting moron? She clenched her fists beneath the robe, teeth gritting as if sheer will could stop her body from reacting to the intimate display they’d just shared.

Lefevre opened her mouth to say something, probably a cautious question, but André’s voice, soft and irresistible, cut through the tension like honeyed steel. "I want to see how beautiful my bride-to-be will look in the fitting, so, of course, we should attend."

Vivienne’s inner monologue shrieked: Of course we. Oh, wonderful. Fantastic. I get to try on stupid clothes, probably robes that cost more than a small village, and jewellery that is probably cursed, while he watches me like a lovesick idiot. Perfect. Just perfect.

André leaned forward slightly, a subtle, intoxicating shift, his voice soft, almost guilty. "You don’t mind, do you? I just want to be with you."

Vivienne nearly gagged at the sweetness, the deliberate tenderness. Her lips curled into a pitifully fake smile. "No, no, I don’t mind at all. In fact, I love it. I will need your help selecting the best pieces." The words tasted sour in her mouth, but she kept her voice smooth, flawless, as if it were another layer of her mask. Any falter, and he would notice. And she would never live it down.

He smiled, eyes glinting with that dangerous, maddening charm that made her skin crawl and her heart jump. "I’ll make sure to help you pick something that suits you best." Smooth, dangerous. Calculated. And then, the silent thought, unspoken but impossibly real: my little thief. In his head, it was soft, delicious, predatory. He wasn’t helping her pick clothes. He was imagining the cage she could never escape, the grip he had on her, the slow, inevitable pull that would draw her to him every single time.

Vivienne’s stomach flipped at the thought, a wave of fury and heat mingling. She pressed her hands harder to the robe, pretending she wasn’t trembling slightly at the raw, undeniable erotic charge that hung between them. Every inch of the room seemed to vibrate with it, a silent electricity that made her want to scream and sigh at .