CHAPTER 83: NO CLUE

Vivienne and André walked side by side down the long hallway, both pretending to be calm, both looking like they just came out of a painting titled "The Perfect Couple of Ravelle."

Inside, they were both dying.

The sound of their footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. Every step felt heavier than the last. The silence between them was so thick it could strangle someone. Vivienne’s chest felt tight, her heartbeat loud enough that she feared André could hear it. Her palms were sweating even though the air was cool. She tried to focus on the chandeliers, the paintings, the carpet—anything but the man walking next to her.

"Oh dear God," she thought, trying to keep her face calm. "What have I done? What have I done? This is pure madness. Absolute, shiny madness. Why did I not die last night instead of... whatever that was?"

She could still feel it. His hands. His voice. His goddamn mouth. Her cheeks burned. She wanted to scream into a pillow or throw herself into a well—whichever came first.

Her steps became smaller. Her knees felt weak, like they didn’t belong to her anymore. It wasn’t guilt—no, guilt was for people who did something wrong. This was humiliation. The kind of shame you felt when you realized you lost to your enemy not in battle, but in bed.

André, beside her, looked calm as ever. Too calm. Like someone who just enjoyed watching the world burn and then went for breakfast. His posture was perfect. His steps were steady. But his face was unreadable.

They passed two servants in the hall. The servants bowed politely, their eyes full of fake admiration. Vivienne smiled like a perfect lady, even though all she could think was, "If these idiots knew what happened last night, they’d probably wash this entire hallway with holy water."

André’s hand brushed hers slightly. Her entire body tensed like she had been electrocuted.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed.

He looked at her with that little half-smile that made her want to slap him with a chair.

They reached a turn, still no words. It was painful. Obnoxiously painful. Even the ticking clock at the end of the hall sounded like it was mocking them.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime of walking through hell in silence, they reached his room.

He stopped at the door, turned to her with that calm, dangerous smile of his, and said softly, "Get ready. I’ll see you soon."

Vivienne forced a smile. "Of course."

Her voice sounded sweet. Too sweet. It made her sick.

The moment André walked into his room and shut the door, Vivienne’s fake smile dropped like a corpse. Her entire face twisted with disgust.

"What the fuck was that?" she whispered under her breath. "What the actual fuck was that? Why am I smiling like an idiot? You’re losing it, Vivienne. You’re losing your bloody mind."

She clenched her fists, pacing quickly back to her room. Her hair was still messy. Her throat was dry. She could still taste the memory of last night on her lips, and it made her want to bite herself just to erase it.

She muttered to herself as she walked, "I have to focus. Focus on the vault. It’s been two fucking weeks. Two goddamn weeks and I still have nothing. No clue, no hint, no shadow of that bloody golden horse. I’ve been sleeping, eating, and nearly dying in this cursed chateau for what? For this lunatic to turn me into a shaking mess? No. No, Vivienne, you have to get it together."

Her room was just across the hall. She opened the door quietly, stepped in, and shut it fast like she was escaping a ghost.

The room smelled of roses and perfume, but she barely noticed. She threw herself on the bed, her head sinking into the pillows. Her hair spread all over, wild like her thoughts.

"God, I’m losing it," she whispered, half laughing, half crying. "I’m supposed to be a thief, not a lovesick idiot. I’ve handled worse men before. I’ve dealt with lords, guards, drunk gamblers, even priests. But this one—this one is a whole fucking disease."

Her mind kept replaying his voice from last night, the way he said her name like a curse and a prayer at the same time. It made her skin crawl, but it also made something in her chest ache.

She groaned and covered her face with a pillow. "Stop it. Stop thinking about him. You’re here for the vault. You are not here to melt under some duke’s body like a stupid romantic heroine. Focus."

She sat up, breathing deeply. "You have one month left. One. And you’ve already wasted half of it pretending to be in love with a psycho. He probably hides that vault somewhere no one dares to go. I need to be smart. I can’t let his stupid blue eyes confuse me."

She stood and went to the window, pulling the curtains aside. The morning light hit her face. The gardens below were peaceful, with maids watering flowers and guards patrolling the gates. The world looked calm. Too calm for the storm inside her.

Vivienne sighed, brushing her messy hair back. "Tonight," she whispered. "Tonight I’ll find something. I don’t care if I have to sneak into his study again or set the entire place on fire. I’m finding that fucking vault."

Then she laughed to herself softly, bitterly. "And if I don’t, well, maybe I’ll just steal his sanity instead. Not like there’s much left."

---

Across the hall, André stood still inside his room.

He hadn’t moved since shutting the door. His hands were resting on the edge of the desk. His eyes were distant, fixed on nothing.

The morning light fell across his face, but he looked like someone standing in the dark.

He whispered to himself, "Everything doesn’t matter. It never did."

His voice was quiet, almost tired. But there was something else—something sharp behind it.

His room was beautiful, filled with books, maps, old paintings. Yet the air felt heavy, like even the walls knew something was wrong with him.

He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly. He clenched them into fists, then relaxed again. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He didn’t even want to think about it.