CHAPTER 84: RIDE TO DISASTER

The bath chamber was hot.

Hot with steam, hot with perfume, and hot with the kind of tension that made Vivienne want to drown herself in the tub just to escape the air.

The walls were painted in cream and gold, and the air was heavy with rose and jasmine oils. The scent should have been calming, heavenly even, but to Vivienne, it was suffocating. It felt like she was trapped inside a bottle of perfume someone forgot to open for ten years. The marble floor gleamed like a mirror, the water shimmered like melted silk, and floating roses covered the surface.

Genevieve had outdone herself this time. She was smiling as she poured another bottle of oil into the steaming bath, the kind that probably cost two years of her pay. The water turned into a pool of gold and red.

Vivienne stood there, staring at it blankly, thinking how ridiculous it all looked. All this luxury for a woman who had just spent the night doing the one thing she swore she’d never do—let that deranged duke touch her again.

She exhaled sharply and rubbed her temple. "You are so fucked, Vivienne," she muttered under her breath. "You’re knee-deep in perfume and madness."

The steam rose, fogging the mirrors, wrapping her like a ghost. She could almost picture him—André—his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes last night. She shivered, partly from memory, partly from rage.

Then she scowled. "No. No way. No way in hell. I might be crazy but not that crazy."

She looked at the bath like it was plotting against her. "I am not letting him make me lose my head again. I’ll keep my damn dignity this time."

Genevieve, who was humming softly beside her, turned with the sweetest, most annoying smile ever. "Vivienne, your bath is ready." Her voice was full of admiration and maybe envy too. She couldn’t even hide it.

Vivienne sighed and stepped in. The hot water swallowed her whole, sending a warm rush through her body. She leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to pretend she was somewhere else—anywhere else but here.

Genevieve knelt beside the tub, dipping her hand into the water like she was scared it might bite her. "It must feel good, doesn’t it?" she said dreamily. "Being loved by his grace. To be cared for like this. You have everything anyone could ever dream of."

Vivienne opened one eye, her lips twitching. Loved by his grace? If only this idiot knew.

Genevieve continued, sighing like a lovesick girl, "It won’t take long till you become the duchess. I just know it. He’s completely in love with you, Vivienne. You can see it in his eyes. Every woman in this house wishes they were you."

Vivienne forced a small giggle. "Oh, Genevieve, you flatter me too much."

But in her head, she was already smashing Genevieve’s head against the marble bath edge.

"Duchess?" she thought bitterly. "I’d rather bathe with snakes than marry that lunatic. Love? The only thing that man loves is watching me lose my mind. Idiot girl. You think I’m lucky? I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat if it meant never hearing him say ’my love’ again."

Vivienne smiled softly, pretending to blush, and whispered sweetly, "You think so?"

Genevieve nodded eagerly, eyes wide like a child. "Oh yes, Vivienne. Everyone can see it. He adores you."

Vivienne wanted to laugh. Not a gentle laugh—a loud, unholy, crazy laugh. She wanted to grab Genevieve by the shoulders and shout, "He’s not just in love, he’s fucking crazy!" But instead, she just smiled, dipping her head under the warm water to hide her expression.

When she came up, her hair was dripping, her skin glowing from the steam, but her face was tired. The warmth couldn’t wash away her thoughts.

After what felt like forever, Genevieve finally stood, gathering the towels. "I’ll bring your robe, Vivienne."

"Thank you, Genevieve," Vivienne said sweetly, her tone soft and gentle. Inside her head, she was saying, "Bring me a knife instead."

---

After the bath, Vivienne sat before her mirror, her damp hair falling over her shoulders. Genevieve was brushing it, humming again like a happy bird.

Vivienne stared at her reflection. She looked too peaceful, too pretty, too spoiled. It made her sick. She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt like a fraud wearing another woman’s face.

Genevieve brushed her hair slowly, smiling like an idiot in love. "His grace has such good taste," she said, her eyes dreamy again. "He even ordered new perfumes for you yesterday. I heard they were made in Ravelle’s capital—by the royal perfumer himself."

Vivienne gave a half smile. "How wonderful," she said softly, while thinking, "He’s trying to bury me in flowers before killing me, clearly."

Suddenly, the door opened, and in came Madame Lefevre.

Her face was bitter enough to curdle milk. Her lips were pressed so tightly it looked painful. She walked like someone who swallowed a nail.

Vivienne didn’t even flinch. She just turned her head slightly and smirked.

Madame Lefevre gave a stiff nod and cleared her throat. "His grace has had this prepared for you."

She gestured to the maid behind her, who carried a large box. The box was polished wood, tied neatly with a ribbon. Lefevre’s tone was polite, but her eyes were full of something that looked like hatred—or maybe jealousy.

Vivienne looked at the box, then at Lefevre, and smiled lazily. "How thoughtful of him."

Genevieve squealed softly. "Oh, Vivienne, what could it be?"

Vivienne took her time opening the box. When she lifted the lid, her eyes widened for a moment. Then her mouth twitched.

Inside was the most elegant riding outfit she had ever seen. The coat was a deep red, made of fine velvet with gold embroidery, paired with soft cream breeches and high polished boots. It was bold, expensive, and... comfortable.

She stared at it in silence. For one second, she almost admired it. Then it hit her.

He wanted her to ride with him.

Her lips parted, and she almost laughed out loud. Not the sweet kind of laugh—a dry, desperate one.

"Oh, so he wants to go riding," she thought. "Of course he does. Maybe this time, he plans to ride me till I forget how to breathe, not just walk. Maybe he’ll make me neigh too, for his personal amusement. That bastard."

Her face stayed perfectly still, perfectly polite, but her head was a battlefield. "I hate him. I hate him. I hate him," she thought again and again. "One day I’ll stab him with his own seal opener. Or strangle him with his fancy cravat. Or throw him off his horse and let him break his neck. God, please, just give me strength not to kill him today."

She forced a sweet little smile and said softly, "How beautiful. His grace is always so thoughtful."

Madame Lefevre smiled thinly, clearly irritated by her calmness. "Yes, his grace has a very generous heart," she said.

Vivienne’s smile widened, all fake sweetness. "Indeed. A very generous heart. One that beats too loudly for his own good."

Madame Lefevre looked like she wanted to throw the box at her face but instead curtsied stiffly and left.

Vivienne watched her go, muttering quietly, "I hope she trips on the stairs."

Genevieve clasped her hands together. "You’re so lucky, Vivienne. He must adore you to gift you something so grand."

Vivienne turned slowly to face her, smiling with dead eyes. "Yes, Genevieve. I’m the luckiest woman in the world."

Inside, she was already praying her last prayers. "He’s going to kill me today," she thought. "Not literally, but close enough. If he says ’fun activities’ again, I’m going to throw myself off his horse before he throws me on it."

She stood up, took the riding outfit, and began dressing. Genevieve helped her, still babbling about how romantic it was. Vivienne was only half-listening, her brain already screaming.

She buttoned the coat, tied the sash, and stared at herself in the mirror again. The reflection looking back at her was perfect—poised, lovely, calm. But inside, she was shaking.

She adjusted her gloves and muttered softly, "He’s planning something. He always is. Whatever it is, I’ll survive. I always do. But God, please, not in the stables."

---

Meanwhile, across the hall, André was already dressed.

His room was quiet, the sunlight falling through the tall windows. He stood before the mirror, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.

He wore a white riding shirt, fitted at the shoulders, tucked into dark trousers. A long cream coat hung neatly over his frame, his gloves were spotless, his boots polished till they shone. He looked like the perfect duke—elegant, composed, cold.

But his eyes were strange. Empty, yet alive with something dark.

He adjusted his gloves slowly, his fingers steady. His face gave nothing away, but inside, his thoughts were not calm.

"She’ll wear it," he murmured to himself. "Of course she will."

His lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that never reached his eyes.

He looked at his reflection again, tilting his head slightly. The man in the mirror looked perfect. Too perfect. Like a statue carved to hide a secret.

He took one last look at himself, then turned toward the door. His voice was quiet but certain. "Let’s see how long you can pretend, little thief."

The sound of his boots echoed as he left the room, his steps calm, confident, almost soft.

But the mirror behind him caught the truth in his reflection—something cold and dangerous flickering just beneath the calm surface.