Chapter 36: The Wall Of Painting And Lies
Vivienne and André were still in the dining room. The table was a mess. Silverware had fallen, bread crumbs were scattered, and the candles were bent slightly like they were tired of watching the madness that had just happened. Vivienne sat right on the table, her hair messy, her cheeks flushed, and her corset barely hanging on.
André, on the other hand, looked annoyingly composed, like he had just returned from a polite afternoon stroll. He reached out and caressed her face so gently that it made her sick. His hand was warm, his smile soft.
"I love you, Vivienne," he said quietly, as if he meant every word.
Vivienne wanted to vomit right there on the spot. She wanted to claw his eyes out and run far away. But instead, she forced herself to smile back at him, her hand sliding to his chest as if she adored him.
"I love you too," she said sweetly, even though in her mind she was spitting poison.
Her fingers pressed against his chest and all she could think was how much she wanted to rip his heart right out. I have to make him trust me completely. He has to believe every word I say. Then, maybe then, he’ll finally open his mouth about the vault. Or some secret. Anything. Endure this, Vivienne. Endure this like a saint, even though you’re the devil’s maid.
She leaned in and kissed him, her lips soft but her thoughts sharp as knives.
André kissed her back, slow and deep, then pulled away just enough to whisper against her lips. "Let’s get dressed. I have something I want to show you."
He kissed her softly again, just a small peck, as if sealing the promise.
Vivienne’s head screamed. Better not be another way to fuck me. Or worse, some shitty love poem you wrote when you were twelve. I swear if you show me another piece of sentimental nonsense I’ll strangle myself with my corset strings. Let it be gold. Just gold. Or at least your damned vault. Please, God, I’ll even take silver at this point.
Out loud she smiled, her voice sweet as sugar. "What is it, my lord?"
André gave a sly smile. "It’s a surprise."
Vivienne giggled, the fakest giggle that ever left a woman’s mouth. "Really?" she said, and it sounded so sweet, but in her mind she was already biting her tongue to keep from screaming.
André pulled his shirt back on, tied his cravat lazily, and adjusted his belt. His every move was slow, calm, almost elegant, like he knew she was watching.
When he was done, he reached over, lifted her off the table like she was some fragile princess, and placed her gently on the floor.
Vivienne blinked. Her brain nearly short-circuited. What the fuck was that? Why did you let him lift you up, Vivienne? Don’t your legs work? Are you paralyzed now? Oh God. You’re losing. You’re actually losing this game. You let him pick you up like some fairytale maiden. Disgusting.
She narrowed her eyes and muttered, "What was even the point of that?"
André only chuckled, tying the knot of her corset with maddening patience. He tugged it firm, then helped her slide her dress back on. Once she was dressed again, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead like some devoted husband straight out of a romance novel.
"Let’s go," he whispered.
Vivienne’s insides twisted. God, I am going to vomit if he keeps acting like this. Sweet, loyal, devoted husband? No. Stop. You’re not Prince Charming. You’re a bastard who fucked me on a dining table while I bit into bread like a lunatic. Don’t pretend you’re wholesome. I can smell the evil dripping off you.
Still, she gave him her hand when he offered it. They walked out of the dining together, their fingers intertwined, like a pair of lovers who couldn’t live without each other.
"Where are we going?" Vivienne asked, trying to sound curious, even playful.
André only smiled. "I want you to meet someone."
Vivienne tilted her head, confused. "Who?"
"You’ll see," André said softly.
They walked through the grand halls of the chateau, hand in hand. The marble floors echoed beneath their steps. The high windows let in streams of light, and the chandeliers above glittered. Servants passed them, bowing their heads politely, but Vivienne could hear the whispers as they walked away.
She stiffened. God, I’ll soon become the talk of the town. Look at her, walking with the duke, all sweet and in love. As if anyone could really love this insane man. Do they not see the truth? Or are they blind?
She glanced at André beside her, his hand warm in hers. My back literally hurts from you pinning me on that table like dough. And here you are, walking like a saint who’s never touched a woman. Bastard.
André’s face remained calm, but his thoughts ran wild. She must be losing it. Look at her lips pressed tight. Look at the fire in her eyes. She’s fighting me, even now. Don’t worry, Vivienne. I won’t hurt you. Not yet. Not the way you think. I’ll let you burn slowly.
Finally, they reached one of the wings of the chateau. The air here was quieter, almost heavy.
Vivienne frowned. "Where are we?" she asked softly.
André didn’t answer at once. He simply pushed open a tall wooden door and stepped inside.
"This," he said as the door creaked wide, "is the portrait room."
Vivienne’s eyes darted across the space. The walls were lined with hundreds of paintings, all framed in gold and bronze. The air smelled faintly of old paint and dust, but also of something almost sacred.
She blinked. The portrait room? What the fuck. You want to paint me? No. Absolutely not. I’m not sitting naked on a stool while you try to immortalize me with paint. I’ll stab myself before that happens.
André’s gaze softened as he stepped forward. "This was my mother’s room. She used to paint. I remember coming here when she was alive."
He walked ahead, his hand brushing the air as if he could still feel her presence.
"Come see," he said gently.
Vivienne sighed dramatically and followed. Her shoes clicked on the floor as she approached him.
He stood before a large painting. A woman’s face stared back at them, graceful and serene. Her dark hair framed her pale skin, her eyes soft but strong.
"This is her," André said, his voice carrying something rare—tenderness. "Isn’t she beautiful?"
Vivienne stared. She is. Damn it. She’s actually beautiful. And of course, here comes the tragic backstory. Let me guess, André. You fell in love with me because I remind you of your dead mother. How sad. How disturbingly sad. Am I supposed to feel flattered or horrified? Probably both.
André’s eyes lingered on the painting. "I really wish she was alive. She would love you too."
His voice cracked ever so slightly.
Vivienne felt her stomach churn. She wanted to roll her eyes, scream, and cry all at once. But she shook her head softly instead.
She forced herself to ask, "What about your father? I don’t see his painting here."
The change in André was instant. His face hardened. His smile faded like the light had been blown out. His shoulders tensed, and for the first time, silence filled the space between them like a warning.
It was like she had just whispered some forbidden spell