CHAPTER 85: EYES LOCKED IN

Vivienne walked toward the stables like a woman walking to her death. Her heart was racing so fast it could have broken out of her chest, sprinted away, and left her body to rot behind. Every step felt heavier than the last. She wanted to turn back, to pretend she had suddenly caught the plague or had both legs broken, but no. She had to go. Because André would come looking, smiling that sickly sweet smile, and she would rather burn alive than deal with that in front of the maids again.

She could already hear the sound of horses neighing from afar. The smell of hay, mixed with that sharp, clean scent of saddle polish, filled the cold morning air. It wasn’t bad. It smelled rich. Like the scent of money and power — two things she wanted but never had enough of.

When she finally stepped into the stables, her jaw nearly fell to the floor.

The place was massive. Not just big — it looked like a cathedral built for horses. Sunlight poured in through tall, arched windows, catching the floating dust like golden snow. The ceiling stretched so high she had to tilt her neck back to look at it, and even then, it made her dizzy. The wooden beams were carved, each one painted with strange patterns and symbols. Every stall was cleaner than her old bedroom back in the city. Some of the horses had silken blankets. Others had golden buckles and velvet reins. Velvet. On a horse. She could scream.

She just stood there for a while, blinking in disbelief.

"Oh, of course," she muttered under her breath, voice dripping with fake admiration. "Because why not? Let the horses live better than half of Ravelle. I’m sure they also drink wine and have private rooms."

She walked deeper inside, her eyes darting from one horse to another. Each one looked majestic, shining like they knew they were owned by a duke. She saw a white stallion that looked like it was carved from marble, a brown mare that could probably buy her entire childhood street, and then a few smaller ones that looked wild — untamed, with sharp, curious eyes. She wondered what it must feel like to have everything handed to you like André did. The food, the clothes, the servants, the money. Even his damned hair probably got brushed by angels.

"Must be nice," she whispered to herself. "Being born rich and stupid."

The stable was quiet except for the soft sounds of hooves and the rustle of hay. It was so big that her footsteps echoed faintly, like she was walking through a church built for spoiled animals. She moved between the stalls, her hands brushing lightly against the smooth wood, her thoughts running wild.

For a moment, she forgot about André. Forgot about the vault. Forgot about everything except the ridiculous beauty around her. But of course, her brain never allowed peace for more than three seconds.

The moment she felt calm, her thoughts came crawling back.

"The fun he mentioned," she thought bitterly. "I swear if that man’s idea of fun involves ropes, hay, and me losing another piece of my dignity, I’ll strangle him with his own riding gloves."

Her face twisted into a smile — one that would have terrified anyone watching.

She kept walking, glancing at the shining metal tools hanging neatly along the walls. Everything looked expensive. Even the whip looked like it had a better life than her. "Look at this," she thought, shaking her head. "Even his damned whips are polished. I bet they have names too. What’s next? A gold-plated bucket for horse piss?"

There was no one in sight. The grooms were probably outside. That made her uneasy. A quiet stable meant she could think. And thinking meant madness.

She stopped and looked around again, then said aloud, "Is anyone here?" Her voice bounced off the walls and came back, making her feel small and stupid. "Great," she muttered. "Even the horses don’t want to deal with me."

She kept walking, dragging her fingers over the doors, looking around for something, anything to distract her. Then, half joking to herself, she whispered, "Maybe I should just steal one of these and leave. Forget the vault. Sell the horse. Retire. Live in a cottage and eat soup every day. Peaceful. No dukes. No dicks. Just soup."

For a brief second, she smiled at the thought.

Then, she froze.

The sound of men talking outside reached her ears, low and polite. She peeked from the open side door and saw André standing outside with an older man — the stable master. Philippe, she guessed. His hair was white, his back slightly bent, but his clothes were neat, and his movements were sharp. He looked like someone who’d spent his whole life taking care of noble horses and dealing with spoiled aristocrats.

André stood tall, dressed in white from head to toe. His riding coat fit him perfectly, hugging his shoulders, the gold buttons gleaming against the bright fabric. The gloves he wore were pure leather, and his boots shined like mirrors. His dark hair was neatly brushed back, and the sunlight caught his pale skin, making him look almost unreal. Like some saint who sinned too beautifully to be forgiven.

Vivienne wanted to scoff. Of course he wears white to ride horses. Because why not? Let’s go roll in the mud dressed like an angel. Idiot.

From where she stood, she could see Philippe adjusting a saddle while André spoke softly. She couldn’t hear all the words, but she caught a few.

"Make sure the black mare is ready," André said quietly. "And keep the others calm."

Philippe nodded. "Yes, your grace. Shall I have one prepared for the lady as well?"

André smiled — that same calm, cold, elegant smile that made Vivienne want to strangle him. "Of course. She wouldn’t miss this for the world."

Vivienne almost gagged. Oh, I’d miss it. Gladly. I’d even disappear into another country to miss it.

She stepped back before they noticed her. She didn’t want him to see her yet. She needed a minute to breathe, to fix her face, to stop herself from throwing a rake at his perfect jawline. She turned around, intending to pretend she was admiring the stable’s architecture or whatever nonsense a "loving lady" should do.

That was when she saw it.

At the far end of the stable, in the shadowed corner where sunlight barely touched, stood a horse unlike the others. It was black — not brown, not dark gray, but black. The kind of black that swallowed light, the kind that looked dangerous and alive. Its mane was wild, thick, and long, brushing its neck like silk. The creature stood tall and still, its chest rising slowly, its eyes sharp and intelligent.

Vivienne froze.

It was beautiful. But not in a gentle, charming way. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, like fire or thunder. The air around it felt heavier. Its coat shined like polished obsidian, its muscles firm under the skin. Every breath it took looked like a silent threat.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe. Something about that horse felt different. It didn’t look like the others — too wild, too alive, too untamed for this golden cage.

She slowly walked closer, her steps light, her heartbeat loud in her chest. Her eyes never left the horse.

The animal didn’t move. It just stared back at her, calm but fierce, as if sizing her up, as if deciding whether she was worth acknowledging.

Vivienne swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure what drew her in — maybe curiosity, maybe stupidity. But for a brief moment, she forgot André, forgot the vault, forgot everything. It was just her and that horse.

The air felt thick. Hot. Silent.

Outside,

Philippe looked up at him, smiling faintly. "Your Grace, the horses are ready," he said.

André nodded. His voice was soft but steady. "Good. What about her horse?"

Philippe chuckled quietly. "The lady’s horse is waiting too, though I must say, she seems... restless today."

André smiled at that, faintly, a curve of his lips that looked almost tender. "So is the lady."

Philippe laughed politely, though he didn’t quite understand the joke. "Shall I bring her here, Your Grace?"

"No," André said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "She’ll come. She always does."

He said it like he was sure. Like he had already planned every step she would take.

But inside, André was far from calm. His thoughts raced like fire through his veins. "Where is she?" he wondered. "What is she doing? I hope my little thief isn’t planning something foolish." His lips curved into another faint smile, but this one had no warmth. It was quiet, cold, a smile that hid both pain and longing.

Philippe tapped his shoulder softly. "Your Grace?"

André blinked, pulled from his thoughts. "What is it?" he asked.

The old man nodded toward the far side of the stable. "There," he whispered.

André turned slowly.

And there she was.

Vivienne, standing beside that horse. The black one.

The sight froze him. For a second, he didn’t move. His breath caught in his throat. The sunlight framed her in a strange glow — her black hair falling down her back, her hand hovering just close enough to the horse to touch it. .

He felt his heart race, filled with both awe and a kind of ache he couldn’t explain. That horse wasn’t just any horse. It had belonged to someone — someone who once meant everything. The sight of Vivienne standing there, with that horse, felt like seeing a ghost from another life.

He wanted to speak. To call her name. But the words wouldn’t come out. His throat was dry, his hands clenched tight inside his gloves. His eyes stayed locked on her.