Chapter 39: The Girl In The Mirror
Vivienne lay on her bed with her eyes wide open. The room was dark, the sheets tangled around her legs, and her head was pounding from too many thoughts. Sleep refused to come, like it always did whenever André’s voice echoed back into her skull.
She turned over, kicked the sheets, then sat up again, muttering like a madwoman.
His words kept looping in her brain. That one simple question.
"Your parents. What were they like?"
Vivienne grabbed a pillow and pressed it against her face, groaning so hard it sounded like a scream muffled into feathers.
"Why the fuck am I even thinking about this?" she hissed at herself, throwing the pillow across the room. It landed with a dull thud, and she glared at it like it had personally insulted her.
She got up and started pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her hands clutched at her hair.
"Why am I thinking about people who probably never gave a shit? Huh? Why, Vivienne, you dumb bitch? Why?" Her voice cracked, but she swallowed it, shaking her head violently.
She stopped by the mirror, staring at her reflection in the pale light. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed tight, her whole face looking too raw for her liking.
"This isn’t you. You don’t think about shit like that. You don’t get sad. You don’t care about family. You don’t care about ghosts. You care about one thing. One fucking thing."
She slammed her palm on the wooden vanity table, almost toppling a brush.
"The horse. The vault. The robbery. The plan." Her words were sharp, clipped, desperate. "That’s all you need. That’s all you fucking have. Nothing else."
She breathed hard, her chest heaving as she pressed both hands flat against the table, staring at herself like she could slap the softness right out of her eyes.
Then, furious with her own weakness, she spun away and marched back to the bed. She threw herself down on it like she wanted to break the mattress, yanked the blanket up, and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Shut up, brain. Shut up. Shut the fuck up."
But her body betrayed her. Hours later, sleep crept in anyway. Not gentle, not peaceful — it dragged her down kicking.
And the dream came.
—
She was small again. Barely seven. Her legs dangled from the edge of a stool, her little hands folded on her lap.
A mirror stood in front of her. Light fell across her face, soft and golden, almost too pretty to be real.
Behind her, a woman with long black hair brushed her hair slowly. The strokes were gentle, rhythmic, like the tick of a clock.
The room was too quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel natural.
The woman’s face was blurred, like mist had been painted over it. But her presence was warm — warm in a way that made Vivienne’s chest ache. Warm and wrong at the same time, like honey laced with poison.
Little Vivienne’s voice was sweet, soft, filled with trust.
"I love you, mother."
The brush slowed for a second. Then the woman whispered back. Her voice was low, tender, almost trembling.
"I love you too, my dearest."
For a moment, Vivienne’s heart soared. Her small chest swelled with it. That word. "Mother." That sound. "Love." It wrapped around her like a blanket.
But then — everything shifted.
The brush stopped moving.
The light dimmed, shadows stretching across the walls. The air grew colder, thick, suffocating.
Little Vivienne blinked, confused. She tried to glance up at the mirror again, but the reflection was changing.
The woman was gone.
Just gone.
Vivienne’s tiny hands clutched at the edge of the stool. Her voice broke as she cried out.
"Mother? Where are you? Mother?"
No one answered.
Her throat hurt. Her chest felt like it was being crushed.
"Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Mother—!"
Her little voice cracked into sobs. The room swallowed her cries until she was only a small, trembling figure, alone in a suffocating dark.
—
Vivienne jolted awake.
Her eyes flew open, her chest heaving like she’d been drowning. The sheets clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her throat was sore, and her face... her face was wet.
She reached up with shaking fingers, and when she felt the tears, something inside her snapped.
She sat up violently, fists balled tight.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Her voice was hoarse, broken, filled with rage at herself.
"What type of stupid, shitty dream is this? What the fuck is wrong with me? Crying like some abandoned little brat? What the fuck, Vivienne? You don’t cry. You don’t fucking cry. You are Vivienne Moreau."
Her breath shuddered, but she bared her teeth, dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks. She rubbed so hard it hurt, desperate to erase the tears.
She muttered bitterly under her breath, voice thick with loathing.
"Ghosts of people who never mattered. That’s all it is. Nothing more. Nothing fucking more."
Her hands were still trembling when the door creaked open.
She froze, whipping her head toward it.
André walked in, the usual breakfast tray balanced carefully in his hands. He had that easy smile on his lips, that playful look he always wore when he came to torment her with his fake tenderness.
But the second his eyes landed on her, everything shifted.
His steps slowed. The smile faded.
He looked at her like he’d just seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
Her eyes.
They were red. Glassy. Raw.
He placed the tray down on the small table near the bed, his movements careful, quiet. Then he sat beside her, his gaze never leaving her face.
"Vivienne..." His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual mocking edge. "Are you okay? Your eyes... they’re red."
Her stomach twisted, heat rushing to her cheeks — not from embarrassment, but from rage at herself.
She snapped out the first excuse that came to her. "They were itchy. That’s all."
André didn’t buy it. She saw it in the way his brow furrowed slightly, in the way his eyes lingered on her.
He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against her cheek. The touch was slow, deliberate, soft.
Vivienne stiffened instantly. Her whole body locked up like he’d just placed a knife at her throat.
Her brain screamed.
"Why the fuck is he looking at me like that? Stop it. Stop it. Don’t look at me like you see something. Don’t touch me like that. Don’t—"
But his hand stayed there. His thumb ghosted over her skin, warm and careful. His eyes burned into hers, not teasing, not cruel, just... searching.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. She tried to glare, tried to make her eyes sharp enough to cut him. But the longer it lasted, the more it felt like she was unraveling.
It lingered too long. It felt like he could see through her. Like he’d caught her naked, not her body, but her soul.
Her jaw tightened. Her nails dug into her palm.
Inside, she was screaming at herself.
"Don’t flinch. Don’t look away. Don’t you dare cry again. Don’t you dare let him see. You’ll kill him before you let him see."
But her heart was thundering. Her chest ached.
The silence was heavy.
And in that silence, André tilted his head just slightly, eyes still fixed on her, as if he was quietly unsettled by what he saw.
And Vivienne sat there, furious, furious at herself for looking so vulnerable.
Furious at him for making her feel seen.
The air between them was thick, suffocating. Not tender. Not cruel. Just dangerous.