Chapter 7: What Really Is Going On

André was still holding Vivienne’s hands. His grip was firm but not harsh. His skin was soft, warm. She could feel the shape of his fingers around hers. But Vivienne couldn’t move. Couldn’t even open her mouth. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Her mind was spinning. Nothing was making sense. What was happening? This wasn’t what she expected. Not at all. Vivienne had imagined a sickly man, pale and weak, lying in bed and coughing out blood. That was what Madame Mireille told her. That the Duke was either sick or possibly mad. A fragile, hidden man locked up in a grand palace. But the man standing in front of her? He was none of that. He didn’t look like someone who needed help walking. He didn’t look like someone losing his mind. No, he looked like he ruled the world. He was tall and calm, with strong arms and eyes so sharp they made her chest tighten. His clothes looked expensive and clean, like he didn’t do anything that would make him sweat. His skin was clear, his lips were smooth, and his dark eyes were focused only on her. He didn’t look sick. He looked perfect. Too perfect. He ate nothing but the best delicacies, drank only the finest wine, and slept on the softest silk sheets. He looked like someone who had never known hunger. Never known fear. Vivienne was still frozen, unable to speak, when his grip on her hands tightened slightly. "I asked you a question," he said again, gently but firmly. His voice was calm, almost quiet. But there was a strange power in it. Like a thread pulling her closer. Then he pulled her even nearer, slowly, their faces just a breath apart now. She could see the small gold specks in his eyes. She could feel his breath against her lips. She could smell the faint scent of whatever expensive soap he used. Vivienne stuttered. "I... I..." Before she could say anything else, the sound of heels clicking on the floor echoed in the hallway. Madame Lefevre appeared, looking pale and horrified. She bowed quickly, lowering her head. "My deepest apologies, Your Grace," she said. "She’s a new maid. She must have gotten lost. Please forgive her. She didn’t mean to disturb you." André didn’t reply at first. He just looked at Vivienne for a long, quiet moment. His eyes hadn’t left hers. Then, at last, he let go of her hands, so gently it was like the warmth still lingered there. He said softly, "I see." That was all. No anger. No shouting. Just those two words. But they held weight. His gaze stayed on Vivienne as Madame Lefevre turned toward her. "Apologise," she said in a sharp whisper. Vivienne blinked, still not fully in her body. "My apologies, Your Grace," she said quietly, her voice dry and cracked. Madame Lefevre grabbed her wrist and led her away. Vivienne turned her head slightly. André was still watching her. He hadn’t moved. Once they were out of the wing, Madame Lefevre shoved her hand away and hissed, "Didn’t I tell you to do your job and nothing more?" Vivienne didn’t answer. She barely heard her. Her mind was still with the Duke. Madame Lefevre kept going, her voice tight with anger. "I said clean, not go wandering around like a lost puppy. You are here to work, not to get yourself noticed." Still, Vivienne said nothing. Her thoughts were racing too fast. That man... he was the Duke? That perfect man? If the Duke wasn’t sick... if he wasn’t mad... Then what the hell was going on? Madame Lefevre finally stopped walking and turned to her, clearly fed up. "Maybe more cleaning will make your brain work properly." Vivienne blinked. "Huh?" "Go scrub the floor of the East Ballroom. From end to end. And maybe after that, you’ll learn to stay in your place." Vivienne wanted to roll her eyes so badly she nearly did. But instead, she forced a dry smile and said, "Yes, Madame." Later that afternoon, she was on her knees scrubbing the shiny marble floor of the East Ballroom. The room was empty, huge, and cold. Her hands hurt. Her knees ached. She wanted to scream. "This is fucking ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "Scrubbing marble floors like a fucking idiot." But after a while, she stopped cursing. Her mind went quiet. She leaned against the bucket of water, tired and breathless. Nothing was making sense. None of it. She looked down at the clean part of the floor she had just finished. Her hands were soaked and red. Her clothes were sticking to her skin. And still, that man’s face wouldn’t leave her mind. "If he’s healthy..." she whispered to herself, "then this ruins everything." She glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. "If the Duke is fine... if he’s not dying in bed... then we don’t have as much time as I thought." The plan had been simple. Find the golden horse. Steal it. Get out. A sickly Duke was supposed to make it easier. But this... this changed everything. She groaned and dropped her head. "I have to find that gold quickly and leave this place before it swallows me whole." By the time the day ended, Vivienne could barely move. Her back hurt. Her legs refused to lift. She stumbled into her small bed like someone who had been beaten, and the moment her head hit the pillow, she was gone. She didn’t even dream. The next morning, the sun rose too early. Vivienne groaned as she forced her aching body out of bed. Her limbs felt heavy. Her arms throbbed. But she had no choice. She dragged herself into her new life. A maid. She hated it. And Madame Lefevre? She was like a dog who had just found a new toy to chew on. Vivienne was that toy. No matter what she did, it was wrong. No matter how hard she worked, it wasn’t enough. That morning, Madame Lefevre looked her up and down like she was dirt. "Go to the library," she said coldly. "Dust everything. The shelves. The tables. The books. I want to see my face on the furniture when you’re done." Vivienne smiled sweetly. "Yes, Madame." But in her head, she was imagining strangling the old hag with the cleaning rag. So she went to the library. It was enormous. Three levels. Ladders. Tables. Windows so high you could see the sky. She started dusting everything, one by one. Shelf after shelf. The books were thick and smelled like old stories. No matter how much she cleaned, it still looked the same. And then... the door creaked open. Vivienne froze. Her eyes lifted slowly. It was him. The Duke. André. He walked in without a word. His coat was dark, his hair neatly tied. He moved slowly, like he was deep in thought. He walked toward the desk and sat down. He picked up a book and started reading. Vivienne’s heart was beating faster. She lowered her eyes and bowed. "Your Grace." He said nothing. Just flipped a page. But his face... it wasn’t cold this time. It wasn’t curious or intense like before. It was softer. Almost gentle. Vivienne turned back to her work, trying not to seem bothered. But she was curious. Why was he here? Oh well, it’s literally his house. And then he spoke. "Vivienne Moreau." She froze. Her hands stopped in the middle of dusting. Her heart dropped. He knew her name. How the hell did he know her name?