Chapter 57: The Intrusion Of Calamity
André and Vivienne remained tangled together in the sheets. Sweat covered their skin, hair sticking in messy, damp clumps to their faces and shoulders. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Fingers traced along arms, shoulders, sides, hips. Each touch seemed tender, almost intimate, but the reality was a battlefield. Both of them were spent, exhausted, yet neither dared to loosen their grip. The mattress groaned beneath them as if complaining about the abuse it had endured, springs squealing under the weight of their stubborn persistence. A stray pillow flopped uselessly onto the floor, defeated by the chaos.
The sun had begun its slow descent, casting streaks of orange and gold across the room. It hit the messy bed, their tangled limbs, and the sticky, rumpled sheets, painting them in a soft, romantic light that looked absurdly out of place considering how venomous they were inside. André rested his forehead lightly against the crown of her head, lips brushing her damp hair. Vivienne let him, her face blank, expression unreadable, a quiet mask covering the storm beneath. The ridiculous contrast between the warm, poetic light and the sticky, sweaty reality made André smirk internally. "We look like a wet art exhibit gone terribly wrong," he thought, trying not to laugh.
They lay like that for a long moment, the room filled only with their uneven breathing. André’s chest heaved, one hand brushing over the curve of her waist, the other tracing slow, teasing patterns down her arm. She stayed still, motionless, letting him think he was being gentle, that he had won the battle. Outside, it looked like a quiet, intimate moment. Inside, it was a war zone of lust, chaos, and silent venom. A fly buzzed lazily near the window, pausing briefly to witness the absurdity, then left in disgust.
The door creaked.
Madame Lefevre entered, calm and orderly at first. Then she froze, eyes widening in horror as she took in the scene before her. Her mouth fell open like she had just witnessed a demon perform some unholy ritual. She blinked rapidly, as though blinking enough times might erase the sticky mess of sheets, sweat, and tangled limbs she had just walked in on. Her hands twisted nervously, clutching at the edges of her dress as her mind scrambled to process it. Her perfectly tied bun seemed to shift precariously, threatening to topple under the weight of her shock.
Vivienne’s eyes darted toward her intruder, flat and empty, but the tension in her body was palpable. God, great. Now this miserable hag is here. What next. The Gardener. The milk maid. Very soon everyone will know I’m fucking the goddamn duke.
André, however, didn’t even flinch. He lifted his head slightly, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead and letting a slow smirk play across his lips. He knew it was going to be chaotic but it made his heart race. Racing with amusement.
"Why are you here, Madame? Did anything happen?" he asked casually, voice smooth and absurdly calm, like he wasn’t currently covered in sweat and on top of a woman he had just broken half an hour ago.
Madame Lefevre stammered, words tumbling out in half-formed bursts. "I... I... Your Grace. I... I... Your Grace... I... I have something. I came." She swallowed hard, trying to form coherent sentences as her eyes darted between them. Her cheeks burned as though the room had spontaneously ignited.
"I don’t understand," André said lightly, tilting his head, "What exactly are you saying?"
"Your Grace," she finally blurted, "Some documents... they came today. Important documents... need... your signature. Urgent."
André raised one brow, lips curling in a teasing smirk. "Is that so?"
"Yes, your Grace. Very urgent," Madame Lefevre replied, swallowing hard, voice shaky, like she’d just seen a ghost performing Shakespeare in the nude.
"Really? Very urgent?" he asked, voice mild, almost like he was asking if it was raining outside. He leaned closer to Vivienne, brushing her damp hair back, kissing lightly along her neck. She remained still, expression blank, letting him pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
"Yes," she said again, teeth clenching.
"Well," he said, tilting his head toward her, "keep them in my study. I will look at them tomorrow."
Madame Lefevre’s face went pale, mouth opening again in silent protest. "What?"
"I know they are important," André said casually, sliding his lips over the curve of her shoulder. "But as you can see, I am spending time with my love. They can wait until tomorrow."
Vivienne smiled sweetly, lips soft, posture perfect. Behind the mask, though, her glare toward Madame Lefevre was sharp, deadly. Her expression was empty, but André noticed it. He didn’t care. Not right now.
Madame Lefevre swallowed, looking like she might faint, eyes flicking between them. André’s lips traveled lower, brushing the damp skin of her chest, kissing lightly, teasing softly as he murmured something incomprehensible against her skin. The absurdity of the situation—sweaty chaos, undisturbed calm, and the horrified witness—made André fight to contain a laugh.
"I’ll take my leave, Your Grace," Madame Lefevre stammered, voice small and trembling. She turned, but André called after her.
"Wait."
"Yes, Your Grace," she said obediently, shuffling back as his lips traced a slow path down her chest again. He whispered softly, almost sing-song, "Have the servants prepare a bath for us."
"Yes, Your Grace," she said, bowing slightly. She tried to leave, but he added, "And bring our dinner to the room as well."
"Yes, Your Grace," she whispered, spinning on her heel and leaving the room, pale and horrified, wig wobbling with each step. André watched the door close behind her, smirk widening.
He turned back to Vivienne. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, brushing against her shoulders, pressing her closer. Her face remained blank, unreadable, yet perfectly compliant. The room smelled of sweat and tension, mingled with faint hints of perfume gone awry.
They lay there, tangled and messy, watching the sun fade behind the windows. Outside, they looked like a couple in love. Inside, it was chaos. Lust, power, and obsession. They were both filthy, foul-mouthed, unhinged, and completely addicted to the war they waged under the guise of tenderness.
Vivienne’s eyes remained empty. André traced patterns on her skin, watching her body respond to his touches, but he knew she was quiet for a reason. She was hiding something. He didn’t know what, but it was there. It made him grin. Dangerous, silent, blank. Perfect.