CHAPTER 90: THE MADMAN’S SILENCE

The air felt heavier than before.

Even the sky looked tired, as if it had seen too much of them already. And just wanted to sip a hot cup of tea and take a nap.

Vivienne rode behind André as they made their way down the narrow mountain path, the horses’ hooves hitting the ground in slow, steady beats. The wind had grown colder, brushing her face and neck like an unwanted hand.

The silence between them was so thick it could choke a saint.

André rode in front, quiet, stiff, his back straight as a sword. He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to blink. Everything about him screamed control, but not the calm kind — the kind that looked ready to break.

Vivienne hated it.

She hated silence. She hated men who acted mysterious. She hated cliffs, horses, and the fucking smell of flowers that was still stuck in her hair. She hated everything. Everyone. Including herself at that moment.

But most of all, she hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said.

I want to burn it to the fucking ground.

What kind of person says something like that?

Who looks at a city and thinks of setting it on fire and watching it burn to the ground?

His own city?

Her mind was spinning.

She thought, he is seriously fucked up. He completely unhinged. He is fucking mad.

She watched his back, the way his shoulders tightened whenever the horse shifted. His hands on the reins were strong, but she could see the tension there — that small twitch of the fingers that betrayed something deeper. He looked like he was holding something in. Something heavy. Something dangerous.

She bit her lip, annoyed that she even noticed.

"Crazy fucking bastard," she muttered under her breath.

The horse neighed like it agreed.

She rolled her eyes. "Don’t start, you useless beast. I already have one madman ahead of me."

The mountain wind whistled through the rocks. The sun was slipping lower, dragging streaks of red and gold behind it. It would’ve been beautiful if not for the damn tension crawling up her spine.

André hadn’t said a word since they left the cliff.

Not one.

He didn’t hum. He didn’t make one of his annoying, poetic remarks. He didn’t tell her how beautiful she was. Or try to compare her to flowers as he usually did. He just rode. And Quietly. Very Quietly.

It was unnatural. Very Unnatural.

Even his silence sounded expensive — like the kind that came from people who’d been taught not to speak unless it mattered. It was the silence of a man who had too many secrets and too much pride.

Vivienne’s curiosity was burning holes in her chest.

She kept staring at him every few minutes, too curious for her own good. The longer she looked, the stranger she felt. He didn’t look crazy from behind. He looked like every woman’s dream — tall, graceful, riding into the sunset like some tragic prince who’d lost his mind for love.

Except this one probably lost it for real, she thought.

Her mind began running wild.

Maybe he killed someone. Maybe he burnt something already. Maybe he really does want to burn Ravelle. Maybe he’ll do it with me inside the castle. That would be fun. I’ll be roasted alive in silk.

She smirked to herself.

"Perfect ending for a thief pretending to be a maid," she murmured. "Cooked by the duke she scammed."

She caught herself grinning and frowned. "Why the hell am I smiling?"

The horse neighed again.

"Oh, shut up."

They kept riding.

The path opened wider, and the field came back into view. The flowers that had looked so bright earlier now seemed dull under the fading sun, like someone had washed their color away. Their beauty had died with the light.

Vivienne’s gaze flickered to them, then to André again.

She wondered what was going on inside that head of his.

He looked calm now, but calm wasn’t always safe. Calm men were the ones who snapped without warning. And something about his eyes before — that dark look — it hadn’t been just anger. It had been something deeper.

She tried to tell herself not to care.

He wasn’t her problem.

He was just another rich, unstable man born into too much power and not enough love. A spoiled, lonely, dangerous piece of art that should have been locked in a museum and not handed a kingdom.

Still, her mind wouldn’t shut up.

She wanted to ask him. She really did.

"What did you mean by that?"

"Why burn Ravelle?"

"Who hurt you?"

But the smarter part of her brain, the one that had kept her alive all these years, whispered, Don’t. Don’t open your mouth, Vivienne. Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.

So she didn’t.

She just followed in silence, biting back her words until they turned to ash in her mouth.

By the time the chateau came into sight, the sky had turned deep violet. The last bit of light clung to the rooftops, and lanterns were being lit one by one. The air smelled faintly of smoke and roses.

Servants hurried out as they approached, their faces full of polite smiles that looked like masks. They bowed, muttered greetings, and reached for the horses’ reins.

André didn’t even glance at them.

He dismounted quietly, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Then he handed the reins to the nearest servant and walked away without a word.

Vivienne stayed seated on her horse, blinking. "Well," she muttered, "that was romantic."

The servant beside her froze, unsure if he should laugh or stay silent. She glared at him until he looked away.

She climbed down slowly, fixing her skirt. The ground felt cold beneath her shoes. As she straightened up, she caught sight of André walking toward the entrance, his coat brushing behind him, his shoulders stiff.

He didn’t look back.

Not once.