CHAPTER 102: SIN AND SILK PT1

The night had grown long and quiet. The fire in Vivienne’s room burned low, giving the walls a soft golden glow. Hours had passed since the dressmaker nearly tried to kill her with all those silks and velvets. Her body still ached from being squeezed, pulled, and pinned into a hundred layers of fabric.

Now, Vivienne lay on her bed, wrapped in a light robe, her skin smelling of lavender and vanilla. It was some new nonsense Genevieve had decided to mix into her bathwater. She said it would make Vivienne’s skin "as soft as the wings of an angel." Vivienne didn’t care. She would have bathed in mud if it meant being left alone for one evening.

But of course, Genevieve didn’t know how to shut up.

She was still talking, walking around the room with a silly grin on her face, brushing Vivienne’s hair as if preparing a bride. "His Grace couldn’t take his eyes off you," she chirped. "I’ve never seen a man look so bewitched. You’re such a lucky woman, Vivienne. The way he looks at you—oh, it’s love. Real love. I swear it on Saint Marie’s bones."

Vivienne didn’t even respond.

She just stared at the ceiling, letting Genevieve’s words float through one ear and vanish through the other.

Genevieve kept going, completely unaware that she was talking to a wall. "He’s going to make you his wife. You’ll be the Duchess of Ravelle! Just imagine, Vivienne—the gowns, the jewels, the power! You’ll never have to lift a finger again. You’ll live in silk for the rest of your days."

Vivienne sighed quietly. "Lovely. Dying of boredom in silk. What a dream."

But Genevieve didn’t hear her. She was too busy sighing like some lovestruck idiot. "He’s mad for you, Vivienne. I’ve never seen a man like that before. The way he stares at you, it’s like you’re the only woman in the world."

Vivienne turned her face to the side, pressing her cheek against the pillow. She could still see his eyes. That stare. The way he looked at her in that purple gown like she was both sin and salvation.

For a moment, her chest tightened.

She hated that.

She hated that her stupid heart wasn’t behaving.

She told herself it was nothing. He was just a fool, madly in love with her—obsessed, even. That was all. There was no magic in it, no meaning. He was just another man under her spell. That’s what she told herself. But for some reason, the thought didn’t calm her.

Her hands moved to her chest, pressing lightly. "It’s nothing," she muttered. "Just his stupid eyes."

But even then, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that something about those eyes wasn’t ordinary.

Something dark. Something dangerous.

Something she should have run from.

---

Meanwhile, in André’s study, the Duke was surrounded by piles of parchment. The faint scent of ink and wax filled the air. His quill moved quickly, his signature gliding across each paper. But his mind wasn’t in it.

Bernard stood nearby, holding a few documents, watching silently. He could see André’s hands moving too fast, like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

"Your Grace," Bernard said softly after a while. "You don’t have to sign them all tonight. Most of these aren’t urgent."

André didn’t even look up. "I just want to keep myself busy."

It went quiet for a bit. Only the sound of the quill scratching.

Then Bernard sighed. "It’s about that woman, isn’t it?"

André’s hand paused. His head lifted slightly. "Huh?"

Bernard’s tone stayed calm, steady. "Vivienne. You’ve been restless ever since she arrived. Are you truly planning to marry her?"

André’s lips curved. A small, humorless smile. Then he gave a low chuckle. "Of course not. Marriage? To her? Don’t be absurd."

Bernard’s brow furrowed. "Then what is this game, Your Grace?"

André leaned back, the candlelight flickering across his sharp face. "It’s not a game," he said, voice low. "It’s entertainment. Watching her lie. Watching her pretend. She thinks she’s so clever." He gave a small laugh, tapping his finger against the desk. "I wonder how long she’ll last before she breaks. I don’t think she has much time."

Bernard frowned. "And what about you, Your Grace?"

André’s eyes lifted. "What about me?"

Bernard hesitated, then said quietly, "This is dangerous. That woman. You could end up falling in love with her. What happens then?"

The room went cold.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then André laughed.

It started soft and low, but then it grew—louder, darker, more unsettling. It echoed through the room like a storm. Bernard didn’t flinch. He had seen this before. But this time, he looked worried.

André finally stopped laughing and leaned forward, his tone sharp but calm. "Love? Don’t insult me, Bernard. There’s no way in hell I’ll fall in love with that woman. She’s nothing. Nothing but a prey. A little mouse that wandered too close to the trap." His lips twitched. "And I’m the cat who’s going to enjoy every second of it. I’ll tear her apart before she ever thinks of running."

Bernard said nothing, only bowed his head. "Very well, Your Grace."

He turned and left, closing the heavy doors behind him.

André sat still, staring at the candle’s flame. For a moment, his smile faded. His fingers rubbed against each other, restless. He whispered under his breath, "I’ll never fall for her."

But his throat tightened when he said it.

---

Hours later, André stood from his desk, exhaustion written all over his face. He left the study, meaning to return to his chambers and finally rest.

But halfway through the corridor, his feet slowed.

Something tugged at him. Something stupid and unexplainable.

He found himself turning, walking in the opposite direction.

Before he even realized it, he was standing in front of the fitting room from earlier.

He stared at the door. "What the fuck am I doing here?" he muttered under his breath.

He turned to leave, shaking his head. But then—

He heard something.

A faint rustle inside.

His eyes narrowed. He pushed the door open quietly.

And there she was.

Vivienne.

In a thin nightdress, her hair loose, her back turned to him as she bent over near the chairs, searching for something.

He froze.

"It’s you," he said finally.

Vivienne jumped, spinning around, her face pale. "Oh— Andr— My Lord."

His eyes swept over her quickly, catching the way the candlelight hit her bare shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

Vivienne stammered. "I—uh—I was just... looking for something."

He raised a brow. "What?"

"My ring," she said softly, lowering her gaze. "The engagement ring. I think it fell here during the fitting. I can’t find it."

André stepped closer, his voice calm. "Then I’ll help you."

Vivienne blinked, caught off guard. "You don’t have to—"

"I insist," he said smoothly, already kneeling down beside her.

They searched together, quietly. The room was dim, lit only by one candle on the table. The silence between them was heavy—too heavy.

Vivienne bent low, lifting the fabric of the chairs, her hands trembling slightly. The strap of her nightdress slid down her shoulder, revealing a glimpse of skin. She didn’t notice.

André did.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Her scent—lavender and vanilla—hung in the air, soft but maddening. He could feel it crawling under his skin.

Vivienne moved again, hair falling to one side, her back partly bare. His eyes stayed fixed on her, dark, hungry, and desperate.

He hated her. He truly did. Every word from her mouth was a lie. Every smile a performance. But right now, he couldn’t remember why that mattered.

He wanted her.

He wanted her like he wanted to breathe.

Vivienne sighed, straightening. "I can’t find it. I don’t know where it went."

Before she could finish, he was already moving.

André grabbed her arm, pulling her closer.

Vivienne gasped, eyes wide. "What are you—"

But he didn’t let her finish.

His mouth crashed against hers—hard, angry, desperate.

For a second, she froze. Then, to her own horror, she kissed him back.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the hate. Maybe it was that wild thing between them that neither of them could name.

Her hands gripped his shirt, his arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, closer, until there was no space left to breathe.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was war.

And for a moment, both of them forgot who they were, what they wanted, and why they hated each other.

There was only that kiss—hungry, furious, alive.