CHAPTER 92: BURNING DESIRES PT1

Vivienne sat in front of her vanity, her robe half-tied, her expression half-dead. The candles were burning low, throwing soft light across her face and turning her eyes into something darker. Genevieve stood behind her, brushing her hair with so much excitement it was almost violent.

Genevieve hummed some silly little song as if she were living in a love story instead of a house full of lunatics. She kept saying, for what felt like the hundredth time, "You’re so lucky, Vivienne. The duke is completely in love with you."

Vivienne stared at her own reflection, dead silent. Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, the kind that hides murder.

Lucky? she thought bitterly. Yes, how lucky I am to have a deranged duke hovering over me like a cat that’s planning my funeral.

Genevieve kept brushing and talking, not noticing Vivienne’s growing rage. "He looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is."

Vivienne’s thoughts went flat and cold. If she says ’love’ again, I’m going to jam this brush down her throat.

She shifted in her seat, trying not to roll her eyes. Her mind was already cursing, already making up a list of creative deaths for Genevieve — pushing her out the window, drowning her in the bath, setting her hair on fire. Anything to stop that shrill, dreamy voice.

Genevieve smiled through the mirror. "Vivienne, you don’t know how many girls would die to be you."

Then die, Vivienne thought. Start the line.

She was seconds away from slapping her own reflection just to stay sane. Her brain, as usual, whispered darkly: If I hear that again, I swear I’ll drown myself in the bath with my hairbrush.

Then the door opened quietly.

André stepped in.

He was dressed neatly, his shirt loose at the neck, his smile perfectly calm. His presence shifted the air in the room — the warmth turned tense, almost dangerous.

Genevieve froze, her brush still tangled in Vivienne’s hair.

André’s voice was soft, almost angelic, but it carried something sharp underneath. "There’s my beautiful goddess."

Vivienne’s hand twitched on her lap. Inside, her stomach turned. Oh, perfect. The lunatic arrives.

Genevieve’s face turned red so fast she almost looked feverish. She lowered her head, mumbling something that sounded like a prayer.

Vivienne glanced at her reflection, deadpan. Oh great. Another idiot in heat.

André’s eyes flicked briefly toward Genevieve, polite but cold. His smile didn’t move, but the air did — heavy, thick, commanding. "Would you mind giving us a moment, Genevieve?"

His tone was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made people obey without thinking.

Genevieve giggled like a fool, grabbed the brush, and nearly tripped over her skirt as she ran out.

Vivienne watched her leave with silent disbelief. Her eyes followed her all the way to the door, and when it closed, her expression turned blank again. Idiot.

The room went quiet.

The kind of quiet that hums.

Vivienne sat still, her eyes on her reflection, pretending he wasn’t there. André moved closer, slow, like a man approaching a wild thing he might want to pet — or strangle.

He stood behind her, watching her face through the mirror. His expression was gentle, but his eyes were anything but.

"I wanted to speak to you," he said softly.

Vivienne didn’t answer. She reached for the comb and began brushing her own hair, ignoring him.

André watched her arm move. His gaze followed every stroke like it was something sacred. "About what I said earlier..." he paused, lowering his voice, "I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have."

She met his eyes in the mirror, unamused. "I don’t care. Everyone has something they wish to burn."

Her voice was flat, dry, perfectly detached.

But her words sliced.

André tilted his head, almost smiling, but there was a flicker of pain behind it. "Something to burn?"

He stepped closer, his tone suddenly quiet, deep. "And what would you burn, Vivienne?"

The air changed.

She froze for a moment, her fingers still tangled in her hair. He was too close. She could feel his breath against her neck, his shadow covering her reflection.

Her heart thumped in her chest, but her mind snapped back with the same vicious humor that had always saved her. You. I’d burn you. And dance in your ashes. Maybe use them as rouge for my cheeks.

She kept her face calm. "Does it matter?"

He leaned closer until his lips were almost touching her ear. "It does to me."

The silence grew unbearable.

Neither of them moved, neither blinked. The air between them felt alive, humming with something that was not quite anger, not quite desire. Just madness. Beautiful, dangerous madness.

They stared at each other like two idiots standing too close to a fire — both knowing they’d burn but too proud to step away first. Vivienne’s heart thudded in her chest, loud enough she was sure he could hear it. Her palms felt clammy. Her throat tight. She wanted to look away, but her body refused to obey.

André’s gaze didn’t waver. His expression was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes looked like they were holding secrets that could kill a person. He looked at her like she was something precious — or something he planned to destroy very slowly.

Vivienne felt cornered — not by fear, but by that wild, stupid pull between them. That thing that made her pulse race whenever he got too close. That thing she pretended didn’t exist. It wasn’t romance. It was war. And somehow her heart was losing every round.

André moved first. The smallest movement — his hand lifting, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed her chin, tilting it up just slightly. Her breath caught in her throat. The touch was light but steady, like he was testing how far he could go before she slapped him.

Her mind screamed don’t you dare, but her body froze.

Then his lips met hers.

It started soft, almost careful. Like he was afraid she’d vanish if he pressed too hard. Then it changed — rougher, desperate, as if both of them were trying to prove something. Prove control. Prove hate. Prove they didn’t care.

Vivienne’s head went completely blank. Her body felt like it forgot who it belonged to.

Her thoughts were chaos. Oh for the love of God. He really can’t stay a day without fucking ruining me.

She wanted to push him away, slap him, scream — but her hands didn’t move. She just stood there, trapped somewhere between fury and something much worse.

The kiss deepened for a moment — not romantic, not sweet. Just raw and confusing and too hot.

When he finally pulled back a little, the air didn’t move. It felt thick, heavy, suffocating.

Neither spoke.