CHAPTER 75: THE SWEET SWEET SIN

Vivienne was still in utter silence when he said that. Her fork hovered in midair, trembling slightly in her hand. She didn’t even blink, though her heart was hammering like a drummer at a funeral march.

She thought, whatever he is planning, it cannot be good. Nothing that comes from his lips is ever good. Every time he smiles, someone’s soul ends up in hell — usually mine. He is smiling like a devil in church. Maybe he is planning to fuck me again on top of dinner. I cannot do that again. My spine still aches, my thighs feel like they have been beaten by a blacksmith’s hammer, and the table itself is probably still sticky with our sins. I can’t even look at the wood without remembering what he did to me on it.

André smiled at her like he was the happiest man in the world. His eyes glowed, soft and bright, as though he was gazing upon an angel instead of the miserable thief sitting across from him. His beauty made her sick — that lazy, deadly charm, the way his lips curled as if God had carved them for sin alone. He was like a painting of a saint defiled by a devil’s hand.

She forced herself to smile back. The kind of smile that could fool a priest into thinking she was holy, while inside she was praying for lightning to strike this bastard dead. Please, Lord. One bolt. Right here. End me or end him.

He leaned in and said simply, "Bring it."

Vivienne blinked. Bring what? Bring who? What the fuck is he planning now? Bring me his cock under the table? Bring the rope to tie me up again? Bring holy water to wash my sins because God knows I need it after being in his presence? Bring a priest to marry me to Satan officially so at least I get a ring?

The doors opened with a slow, theatrical groan. Two servants glided in as if the floor were made of clouds. One walked in, head bowed, holding a silver platter as though it were carrying the crown of Christ. Another followed, bearing a cloth as fine as a bridal veil, setting the platter gently in the middle of the table like an offering at an altar. Even the way they moved screamed money.

Vivienne’s jaw nearly dropped. She thought, what the fuck is this?

The servants lifted the lid with reverence, as if they were unveiling a holy relic or a weapon of mass destruction. And there it was. The most absurd, most blasphemous, most insulting thing she had ever seen in her godforsaken life.

A cake.

Not just any cake. A saffron-soaked cake, dripping with imported chocolate so dark it looked sinful, like a slice of midnight carved from the devil’s own kitchen. It was topped with scoops of ice cream that had no business existing in spring, each scoop shining like polished ivory. It glittered with candied fruits and nuts gathered from the farthest edges of the world — pistachios from lands she’d only heard of in sailors’ drunken stories, cherries that must have been plucked by virgins under moonlight, sugar so fine it sparkled like snow.

Vivienne stared at it like it was a demon wearing a wedding dress. She blinked twice, horrified. That thing probably cost more than an estate. Enough gold to buy me ten lives, she thought. Enough to bury me in silk, lace, and velvet until the day I rot. Enough to feed an entire village for a year and still have coins to throw at the poor for fun. And here this bastard is, acting like it’s nothing more than a biscuit with butter.

She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He’s a fucking duke. He has enough wealth to feed fifty generations of his devilish offspring, while I once slept with a man for a silver ring and a bottle of cheap wine. And here he is, serving me a cake that could make me shit myself just by looking at it. I could sell one crumb of this for more than I ever earned in a month. One crumb. I could pawn the spoon.

She folded her arms. She was not going to eat it. Not this circus of sugar and arrogance. Not this cathedral of sin disguised as dessert.

André leaned close, his grin widening like a wolf’s. He picked up the fork, nudged it against her fingers until she had no choice but to hold it. His voice was soft, low, deadly sweet. "Try it."

Vivienne rolled her eyes so hard she swore she might see her brain. But she gave in, because refusing him always led to something worse. He’d turn refusal into a game, and she’d lose, and she wasn’t in the mood for his games tonight. She cut a piece with the fork, her hands shaking a little, and took a small bite, like a woman tasting her own doom.

The moment it touched her tongue, her whole mouth betrayed her. The flavors exploded like sin itself — rich, golden saffron, bitter chocolate melting like velvet, the sweet coldness of ice cream slipping down her throat like forbidden wine. It was obscene. It was like being kissed by a god and a demon at once. Her lips curled, unwilling, into a smile. A real one. A smile she hadn’t meant to give him.

André caught it instantly. His eyes lit up like torches. His grin spread slow, dangerous, smug as hell. He looked like a man who had just watched a thief steal from his trap only to find the trap was full of gold.

"It’s good, isn’t it?" he murmured, watching her like a hawk.

Vivienne wanted to spit the cake in his face, but she swallowed it like poison. She tried to look unimpressed, but the taste was still lingering, dragging her soul down into shame. She nodded once. "It’s... fine."

"Fine," André repeated, mockingly, as though the word offended his ears. His smile sharpened like a blade. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it curled like smoke against her ear. "You deserve the sweetest thing, my love. After all, you already taste sweet. Perhaps if you eat this..." His gaze burned straight into hers, unholy and unashamed. "...you will taste even sweeter."

Vivienne froze, horrified. Her fork slipped against the plate with a small, betraying clink. Oh for the love of God, kill me now. He’s talking about eating me like I am the dessert. Someone burn this castle down with me inside. At least I will die with dignity instead of being chewed like cake.

André’s eyes were all wicked heat and soft laughter. He looked like a prince from a fairytale gone rotten, offering poisoned apples and smiling while you choke. His hand brushed the table, just close enough for her to feel his presence crawl over her skin.

She thought about taking the whole cake and smashing it into his smug, beautiful face. But she didn’t. Because she knew he would like that. He would probably lick it off his skin and moan just to torment her. God save me from this man.

André, on the other hand, was thinking, eat up my little thief. We are about to have fun. So much fun.