CHAPTER 91: THE STRONG AND THE WEAK

Vivienne sat in the bath like a corpse that forgot to float.

The water was warm, the air was thick with steam, and candles flickered around the marble tub like little ghosts that couldn’t decide whether to stay or melt away.

Her hair was pinned up. Her back was bare. Her mind, unfortunately, was very alive.

She was supposed to be relaxing. But her fucking brain, as usual, had other plans.

It kept replaying his voice. That one sentence.

I want to burn it to the fucking ground.

Vivienne groaned and sank a little deeper into the water. "For fuck’s sake, can I not think about him for one bloody hour?"

Her voice echoed softly against the tiles. No one answered.

The only sounds were the soft dripping of water and the occasional pop from the candles.

She closed her eyes and muttered to herself. "He’s just another rich idiot. A spoiled bastard with too much money and not enough sense. Probably cried for three days when his fucking pet bird died or something."

She reached for the sponge and dragged it lazily across her arm. The water rippled. The movement should have been calming, but it wasn’t.

Her mind refused to shut the hell up.

"Burn it to the fucking ground," she said again, mocking his tone, mimicking his deep voice like a drunken fool. Then she rolled her eyes. "Who the fuck says things like that? Who looks at flowers, sunshine, and pretty rooftops and thinks, you know what this needs? Fire. Absolute fucking fire."

She leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. "Men are insane. Especially rich ones. Especially that one."

But then, against her own will, she remembered his face when he said it.

He hadn’t said it like a man showing off. He’d said it like someone confessing something he shouldn’t.

It was strange. There had been no anger in his voice, no shouting, no wildness. Just calm, quiet ruin.

She hated that she noticed that.

She dipped her hand into the water and watched it ripple. The steam curled around her skin like smoke. She could almost see his face in the reflection — those cold eyes, that faint smirk, that weight behind his silence.

"Ugh," she groaned and pushed herself down until the water reached her chin. "Stop thinking about him, you stupid fucking cow."

Her hair was getting damp now, but she didn’t care. She wanted to drown the thought, literally.

She held her breath and slipped her whole head underwater.

The world went silent.

Everything disappeared — the candles, the warmth, the heavy feeling in her chest.

She stayed there until her lungs burned, until she had no choice but to rise.

When she came up, her breath came in sharp gasps, water dripping down her neck.

"Perfect," she muttered between breaths. "Almost managed to die thinking about a man I hate. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant."

She reached for the towel beside her, wiping her face.

The bath felt too hot now. Too alive.

She climbed out slowly, water dripping down her legs. Her skin glistened in the candlelight, and the air felt cool against her wet skin. She reached for a robe, wrapping it tightly around herself, the soft fabric clinging to her shoulders.

Her dinner waited nearby on a small table — a tray of food that smelled like comfort. Wine, bread, soup, roast chicken, fruit.

She sat beside it, still damp, and tried to focus on the food instead of the thoughts clawing at her head.

She tore off a piece of bread and chewed slowly. The taste was good, but her appetite wasn’t there. She took a sip of wine, then another, and frowned.

Even the wine tasted annoying.

She stabbed a grape with her fork like it had personally offended her.

Her thoughts started again.

He’s just pretending to be mysterious. That’s all.

He probably says dramatic shit like that to every woman he meets.

Oh, look at me, I’m the sad duke with a dark past and a candle fetish.

She laughed to herself. "Pathetic fucker."

But even her laughter sounded hollow.

Because deep down, she knew it wasn’t just drama.

There had been something real in his voice. Something that hit too close to home.

That same kind of emptiness she used to feel when she looked at the world and thought, What’s the fucking point of any of this?

Her chest ached in a way she didn’t like.

She shook her head hard, as if she could knock the feeling out. "No. Nope. Not doing this. I’m not fixing another broken man. I’m not his mother, not his nurse, and definitely not his fucking psychiatrist."

She took another sip of wine. "He can burn whatever he wants. I just need to find that golden horse and get out before he decides to burn me too."

She leaned back in her chair, eyes on the steam still rising from the bath.

Her reflection in the wine looked tired.

And for once, she didn’t have a witty comment to save herself.

---

André sat in his bath, but his water was cold.

The room was quiet, lit by moonlight spilling through the open ceiling. The marble walls gleamed pale silver, and the surface of the bath looked like glass.

He was lying there, motionless, staring at the stars above. His body was still. His eyes, open.

The water had gone cold long ago, but he hadn’t noticed.

He didn’t feel much of anything anymore.

The night air brushed against his wet skin, and he could hear faint music somewhere in the distance — someone playing a violin in the hall.

It reminded him of another day. Another sound.

And suddenly, he was no longer in his bath.

He was eight years old again.

Standing beside his father on the same cliff where he’d stood that afternoon.

The wind had been strong that day. He remembered holding his breath, afraid he might be swept away if he moved too close to the edge.

His father stood tall beside him — a man made of stone, eyes sharp, voice deeper than thunder.

"Look at Ravelle, André," his father had said, his tone cold as frost. "One day, she will belong to you. You will rule it, you will break it, you will bleed for it if you must."

Little André had looked out at the vast city below, the rooftops glowing golden under the sun. It had been beautiful — too big for him to understand.

"You must be strong," his father said again. "Never show weakness. Never let them see you afraid. Never love anything you can lose."

The words felt like orders, not advice.

André had nodded, his small hand gripping his coat tightly.

His father’s hand rested on his shoulder — heavy, cold, cruel. It wasn’t comfort. It was a warning.

"You will not be like your mother," his father said quietly, voice cutting like a blade. " Soft. Weak. Pathetic. You will be strong, bold and courageous. That’s what a true duke is."

The words echoed.

Softness destroys.

Love destroys.

André blinked back to the present.

The bath was cold now. The moonlight had shifted.

He realized he’d been staring at the ceiling for too long. His body was numb, but his mind was loud.

He exhaled slowly.

The memory was always the same — cold, cruel, unchanging.

He tilted his head back, letting the chill water touch his neck.

For a long moment, he did nothing but listen to the silence.

Then, without meaning to, his thoughts drifted back to her.

To Vivienne.

The thief who smiled like she owned the world. The woman who lied so beautifully it almost impressed him.

He had seen the way she looked at him on the cliff. The confusion, the fear, the hint of pity she tried to hide.

He almost laughed at it.

But now, thinking about it, he found himself smiling faintly.

He ran a hand through his wet hair and chuckled under his breath.

"Looks like I scared my little thief," he murmured.

The sound of his own voice startled him — low, tired, but amused.

He let the smile linger.

"Guess I’ll have to fix that before she decides to run."

He rose from the bath, water dripping from his skin, the cold air wrapping around his shoulders. He didn’t bother with a towel at first. He just stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the dark water.

The man looking back at him was pale, sharp, unreadable.

He looked nothing like the boy on the cliff.

He looked like a man who had already burnt everything inside him.

André turned away.

He reached for his robe, tying it loosely, and walked toward the balcony. The night air rushed against him, sharp and clean.

He looked out at Ravelle below — the same view from the cliff, but now softened by distance and moonlight.

It glittered. Peaceful. Alive.

And for a fleeting second, he almost smiled.

Then, as quickly as it came, the warmth left.

All he could think was how easy it would be to destroy it.

How one spark could end centuries of beauty.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if Vivienne would still look at him the same way if she saw that thought written across his face.