CHAPTER 87: STICK TO THE PLAN

André stared blankly at the world outside the stables. The air was quiet, too quiet. Even the restless neighing of the horses sounded distant, like a whisper he didn’t care to hear. The sunlight fell weakly through the open doorway, painting his pale face in a dull gold glow, but he didn’t notice. He stood still, hands loosely hanging by his sides, as if his mind had gone somewhere far away.

The silence didn’t last long. The soft rhythm of hooves and boots crunching on gravel echoed through the yard. Philippe appeared, holding the reins of Le Chevalier Noir—the Black Knight. The beast’s mane glistened like midnight silk, its eyes fierce but calm.

"Your Grace," Philippe said, bowing his head slightly. "I have prepared Le Chevalier Noir for the lady."

Vivienne stood beside him, pretending to be disinterested, though her eyes betrayed her for a second. The horse was stunning—too stunning for the man standing next to her, honestly. Every muscle of the beast rippled beneath its dark coat, sleek and proud, like it knew how beautiful it was.

She tilted her chin slightly, lips curling. "A horse fit for a queen," she muttered under her breath, almost mockingly.

André turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable. His lashes were low, his mouth relaxed, but there was a stillness in him that made her skin itch. His lips barely moved as he murmured, "You may go, Philippe."

Then, without warning, he walked to Vivienne. His movements were smooth, almost graceful, the kind that came with quiet power. When he reached her, he took her hand. His palm was warm, his fingers long and steady, his grip gentle but unshakable.

He helped her up the horse like a gentleman escorting a princess.

Vivienne forced a smile, sweet and polite, but it barely reached her eyes. Her heart gave a small jolt when his thumb brushed against her skin. It wasn’t from affection—it was from the way he did it, like he knew what he was doing. That lazy calmness of his wasn’t ignorance. It was control.

She hated that. She hated him.

Inside, she imagined taking that same hand and slicing off his fingers one by one with a dull blade, feeding them to the dogs while smiling sweetly. His touch made her skin crawl, but she didn’t flinch. She couldn’t. Not when he was watching her with that unreadable gaze, as though she was made of porcelain and could break if he breathed too hard.

Something about him was off. Very off.

He looked dull. Empty. His face calm, almost too calm—but his eyes... they weren’t dead. No, they were worse. They looked like eyes that had seen too much and felt nothing anymore. Eyes that stared at ghosts and still kept their secrets.

Vivienne frowned slightly. What’s this fool’s problem again? she thought. Did one of his horses lose a hoof polish or something? He looks like his soul got eaten by a goat.

She clicked her tongue softly. Even when she tried to dismiss him, her gaze kept finding him. The set of his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way he moved like someone too tired to pretend he cared—but still too proud to let the world see it.

André said nothing. He just turned to mount his own horse—a beautiful white mare that looked like it had stepped out of a royal portrait. His movements were smooth again, his coat shifting over his shoulders, his body straight and tall in the saddle.

Vivienne’s eyes flickered over him before she could stop herself. Damn him for looking that composed. The line of his back, the quiet command in the way he held the reins—it annoyed her. He was supposed to be a fool. A quiet, harmless noble with a frail mind. Yet here he was, riding like a king who didn’t need a crown to prove it.

She tore her gaze away, her jaw tightening.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. The sound of the horses’ hooves on gravel echoed in the space like a heartbeat. When André finally started riding slowly ahead, Vivienne glanced at Philippe, who was still looking at her like a man torn between worry and awkward curiosity.

She squinted at him. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something wrong?"

Philippe chuckled, but it came out nervous, as though even his voice knew it was trespassing on dangerous ground. "Nothing, mademoiselle. It’s just... I’m a little worried about His Grace."

"Worried?" she repeated, her brows arching. "Why?"

He hesitated, glancing at André’s back. His voice dropped, softer now, cautious. "The horse you are riding belonged to the late Duchess—His Grace’s mother. It’s... a sensitive matter for him. Her Grace loved that horse dearly. It was a gift from the Duke himself."

Vivienne blinked. For once, her mind went still. The air around her seemed to thicken.

Philippe lowered his head. "Please be careful with Le Chevalier Noir, mademoiselle. Her Grace loved him very much."

She said nothing. She only stared down at the horse beneath her, the sleek black mane flowing like silk between her fingers. The beast moved with a grace that almost felt human, proud yet gentle. The warmth of its body seeped through her legs, and for a fleeting moment, she could feel its heartbeat beneath her.

Her chest ached, and she didn’t understand why.

Then she turned sharply, pulling at the reins. Her voice came out low and flat. "It’s just a damn horse. Why are they all so dramatic and sentimental?"

Still, when she spoke, the sound of her own voice betrayed her. It wasn’t as sharp as she wanted it to be.

She caught up with André, her hair brushing against her neck as the wind picked up. The silence between them felt different now. It wasn’t awkward anymore—it was tight, charged. He didn’t look back, but she could feel him sense her. Every small move she made seemed to draw his attention, even if his eyes stayed fixed ahead.

She muttered under her breath, "It’s just a horse, not a ghost."

And yet, her heart gave a strange ache she didn’t expect.

A faint image flickered in her head—a little girl, seven maybe, sitting on her mother’s lap. A soft voice reading a story. Laughter like a candle’s glow in the dark. The smell of something sweet.

Her chest tightened painfully.

She shook her head fast, almost violently. "Don’t you dare," she whispered to herself, her teeth clenched. "Don’t you fucking dare remember."

She bit her lip until she felt the sting. It grounded her. Reminded her of who she was. The woman who smiled when she lied, who stole when others blinked, who played people for sport.

Nothing else mattered. Not the horse. Not the duke’s sad little eyes. Not her own trembling heart.

Only gold mattered. Only the plan.