CHAPTER 100: PINK AND PURPLE

Vivienne stood at the center of one of the château’s fitting rooms, stiff as a cursed statue. The entire room glowed like a giant sugar cake — pale pink walls, golden mirrors, and a chandelier that sparkled too much for her liking. This had to be one of the most humiliating moments of her entire twenty-eight years of living. She wanted to vanish into the floor. No, she wanted the chandelier to fall and crush her right there so she could die quickly and escape this hellish display of lace and bows.

She was dressed in soft pink. Not normal pink — soft pink, the kind of shade that screams innocence and vomits sweetness. The kind of pink that made her want to punch someone. The gown had little silk bows on it. Bows. Tiny, fluttering, sickly sweet bows decorating her chest, her sleeves, even the damn hem. She looked like a delicate porcelain doll about to be auctioned off to some pervert. Or worse — like a little princess preparing for her wedding to a man twice her age. She wanted to choke herself with the ribbon belt.

She turned toward the mirror and almost screamed. "I look like a dying pastry," she muttered under her breath.

But André sat there on the chaise lounge, legs crossed, holding a porcelain cup of tea like he was born to ruin her day. He was the image of calm — dressed in a white shirt slightly open at the throat, his dark hair falling perfectly over his forehead. He was pretending to be the kind of fiancé every woman dreamed of. The kind who complimented, adored, and worshipped his bride-to-be. It made Vivienne’s skin crawl.

"This color," André said softly, looking her up and down like he was admiring a rare painting. "You look like spring itself, Vivienne. Like a cherry blossom in bloom."

She wanted to throw the cup at his head. Instead, she smiled. A fake, sickly, too-bright smile that made her face ache. "Oh, my love," she said sweetly, "how poetic of you."

The dressmaker, an older woman with too much blush on her cheeks, sighed dramatically. "You two are such a beautiful couple," she said. "I haven’t seen love this strong in years."

Vivienne nearly gagged. If only this woman knew that she was secretly planning to rob the man sitting across from her. Or kill him. Maybe both.

André was enjoying himself. He always did. He had this smug calm that drove her insane. Every time she stepped out of the changing room, he would shower her with compliments — absurd, exaggerated ones that sounded sincere enough to fool the dressmaker but were just sharp enough to slice at Vivienne’s nerves.

"Vivienne, you look like an angel," he’d say.

"Heavens, you’re a goddess," he’d whisper next.

"You should have been royalty, my love."

Each word dripped with sugar and poison. He said them just to watch her twitch. And she had to smile. She had to play the doting bride, the woman hopelessly in love with her duke. It was a role she played well — except for the part where she wanted to stab him through the heart with a hairpin.

By the seventh dress, she was starting to lose count. The eighth was a soft lavender nightmare. The ninth was butter yellow — she looked like a half-melted candle. Then came the mint one, which made her look like a mint candy wrapper. Every soft, sweet color known to mankind was being paraded on her body like a public execution of her pride. She was dying inside.

Meanwhile, André was thriving.

When she thought it was finally over, he leaned forward, his voice smooth as cream. "Your designs are truly magnificent," he told the dressmaker. "I think she should try a few more."

Vivienne’s eye twitched. A few more? She wanted to scream.

The dressmaker’s eyes sparkled. "Of course, Your Grace. I have several more that would look divine on her."

Vivienne wanted to rip both their throats out but smiled instead, her lips trembling from rage. "How lovely," she said through her teeth.

André tilted his head slightly, pretending to be thoughtful. "Vivienne, my love, you adore her designs, don’t you?"

She wanted to say, I adore the idea of setting them on fire. But instead, she nodded. "Yes," she said sweetly. "They’re... precious."

"Then," André said, smiling wider, "why not let her design your wedding gown?"

Vivienne froze. My what?

For a moment she thought she had misheard him. But no — he was serious. The bastard actually said it. The dressmaker clapped her hands together, squealing like a little girl. "Oh, Your Grace, what an honor! I have the perfect fabric! A fine white satin I’ve been saving — it would suit her perfectly!"

Vivienne wanted to vomit. "Must it be white?" she asked, her voice tight. "I don’t like white."

"Nonsense, my lady," the dressmaker said cheerfully. "White is the color of purity and light! It symbolizes innocence and the blessings of heaven."

"Purity," Vivienne repeated flatly. "How wonderful."

Inside her head, she was screaming. If this woman knew half the things I’ve done, she’d choke on her measuring tape.

André, of course, was watching her the whole time. He could read every wicked thought crossing her mind. He leaned back, pressing his knuckles against his lips to hide a laugh.

"Oh, these are delightful," he said lightly. "But do you have anything even more exquisite? Something that truly captures her... spirit?"

The dressmaker nodded eagerly. "Certainly, Your Grace. I have several more pieces in the back."

Spirit, Vivienne thought. You mean my will to commit murder.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Torturing her with lace and ribbons was his new favorite game. He could tell she hated every second of it, and that made it all the more fun.

And Vivienne, stuck in her little pink nightmare, thought about every poor fool who dreamed of being a princess. She wanted to find them and slap them one by one. "If this is what royalty feels like," she muttered under her breath, "then hell is a palace."

The dressmaker turned, puzzled. "Did you say something, my lady?"

Vivienne smiled sweetly. "Yes. I said it’s beautiful."

Few minutes later, André, completely at ease, sat on the chaise with a cup of coffee now, reading some book like he wasn’t the devil in disguise. The room was peaceful. Too peaceful.

Then the door opened. Genevieve, returned from her errands and curtsied. "Your Grace," she said softly. "Everything has been arranged."

"Good," André said without looking up.

And then — Vivienne walked in.

André’s eyes lifted from the page, and for a second, even he forgot to breathe.

She wasn’t in pastel anymore. No lace. No bows. No ribbons. She wore a bold purple gown, the color of bruised velvet. It hugged her curves, dipping low at the chest, cinched tight at the waist. The skirt flowed like wine when she moved. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders.

This was her. The real Vivienne. Sharp, wicked, beautiful. A woman who looked like sin in silk.

When she stepped into the room, her eyes locked on his. That usual mocking fire burned there, but something else flickered too — exhaustion, irritation, and a dangerous spark that made André’s pulse quicken.

He leaned back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, pretending calm. But his gaze never left her. It was slow, deliberate, heavy. The kind of look that stripped her bare without touching her.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air thicker.