CHAPTER 74: THE KISS AND THE CLOWN

The sun was dipping low, painting the study in soft golds and pinks. André and Vivienne were still naked, as if clothes had become some forbidden punishment neither wanted to endure. Vivienne perched on his table, knees pulled close, arms crossed defensively, while André remained seated in his chair, hands tracing her thighs in slow, maddening motions.

Vivienne’s mind was screaming. I am tired. Are we just going to sit here naked forever? Even the shelves are judging me. All these books, all these dusty papers—they know what’s happening and they’re silently laughing at me. I am a fool. A literal, naked fool on a table in the afternoon sun. Gods, kill me now. Burn me. Strike me with lightning. Or better, let the table collapse beneath me and crush me. Anything but this.

She tried to keep her composure, her voice smooth, fake sweetness lacing every word. "My lord," she said, voice trembling just a little. "It is sunset already. Should we not... get dressed?"

André’s eyes gleamed, playful and maddening. He leaned back slightly, one hand lingering on her thigh. "Why? I told you, I like you bare. So why not stay like this for a while?"

He kissed her stomach and said, "Let stay like this for a while. Let our souls become one."

Vivienne froze. Our souls connect? Our souls become one. One with who—the devil? Do not think of asking me to be your wife because I will spit on you. I will actually spit, and not delicately either—I will spit like a peasant chewing onions.

Her voice cracked with both disgust and fake obedience. "My lord, I... I think perhaps clothing is more appropriate."

André chuckled, the sound low, teasing, sinister, and yet soft. "I told you to call me by my name. I like it better."

Vivienne said, "I’m sorry, André," but she was still horrified inside, her soul screaming.

André chuckled again, saying, "You are so easy to tease, Vivienne. Truly, it is a delight."

Vivienne’s inner monologue exploded. Easy to tease? Easy to what? I am being held on a table, naked, by a man who smells like wine and sin, and I am... I am going to die. Literally die. I hate him. I want him dead. I want to shove his head in a pot of ink. I want to rip the sun from the sky. I want to sue God. But no, here I am, sitting like a fucking idiot on his table while he kisses my thigh like I’m his goddess. Why am I tolerating this? Who cursed me at birth?

He leaned closer, voice a murmur that made her shiver despite herself. "I love you, Vivienne," he said, as if confessing the most intimate, impossible truth.

Vivienne’s stomach flipped violently. I hate him. I am going to vomit in his lap. I am screaming on the inside, I am screaming in every kingdom known to man. But also... why is my body betraying me like this? Fucking hell, stop being alive, Vivienne. Shut down. Pretend to be dead. Maybe he will stop if I play corpse.

André stretched languidly, rising from his chair. "Let us get dressed," he said, voice lighter, playful. "Your stomach has been rumbling like thunder all afternoon."

Vivienne’s cheeks burned crimson. She snapped, voice harsh and indignant. "It was not that loud!"

Oh gods, kill me now, she screamed in her head. May the thunder strike him dead instead. Why does my stomach have to embarrass me in this way? First naked humiliation, now noisy stomach betrayal. I am not a woman anymore—I am simply a clown wrapped in skin.

André’s eyes glimmered with amusement. He could read her every thought, every panic, every vulgar internal scream. "Come now," he said, chuckling softly. "Let us go."

They dressed quietly, though Vivienne felt every second like an eternity. Every button she fastened was like a death knell. Every lace tied was a prayer to escape this madness. By the time they reached the dining room, the sun was almost gone, leaving a warm glow over the long wooden table.

They sat across from each other, plates in front of them, the air thick with tension so strange it almost had its own weight. Vivienne wanted to stab her food, stab the table, stab the entire room. André ate calmly, but every so often he would glance at her, lips twitching in a barely contained smile.

Vivienne noticed, her heart doing weird stutters of fear and irritation. Why is he laughing? God, he is fucking planning something. Something perverse. I can feel it in my bones. Please, someone save me. Maybe a lightning bolt. Maybe a coup. Maybe an earthquake that swallows this entire estate. Something. Any fucking thing.

He leaned close, his voice low and teasing. "Eat up, my love. I have a surprise for you."

Vivienne’s eyes went wide, nearly choking on her fork. A surprise? Dear God, what kind of perverse scheme is he plotting now? Is it in the dessert? Is it under the table? Is it a goat in a bow waiting outside the door? Gods above, help me survive this day without losing my mind completely.

Her inner thoughts were vulgar chaos. I swear if this man touches me under the table again I will have to invent a new curse in every known language. I am alive. I hate him. I love him. My body hates me. My brain has melted into soup. This is illegal in every kingdom ever. I am a fool. I am a traitor to myself. Please, someone, save me or join me in this chaos.

André, of course, noticed every twitch, every inward panic, every tiny shiver she could not hide. She thinks she is controlling me. She is not. She will never control me. And yet, look at her. Her chaos is exquisite. Every gasp, every flush, every thought betrays her. Mine will be gentle... for now.

Vivienne stabbed her food too hard, the fork scraping against the plate. In her head, she was screaming: I will escape. I will run barefoot into the woods. I will join wolves. They will treat me with more dignity than this man does. Wolves do not ask to be called by their names. Wolves do not whisper, ’Our souls must become one.’ Wolves simply bite and move on. Why am I here eating soup with Satan’s younger cousin?

André sipped his wine, watching her suffer like it was art. To him, her madness was delicious, a feast better than any roast on the table. He leaned back and thought, She will break. But not yet. Not yet.