Chapter 28: The Gifted Liar
Vivienne’s mouth opened to sing. Her lips parted, her lungs drew in air, and the first sound was about to come out despite her entire brain screaming in panic.
Inside her head she was shouting:
Don’t you dare, Vivienne. Don’t you fucking dare. You’ll sound like a dying cow. Shut that stupid mouth.
But her body, the traitorous thing, was ready to betray her.
And just as the first note was about to slip out, the door swung open.
Vivienne nearly bit her own tongue.
It was Bernard.
He paused, his eyes flicking from André at the piano to Vivienne standing there with her lips parted like an idiot about to burst into song. His expression said it all. Not my business. Not today.
He bowed low and spoke quickly, "Your grace, an urgent message just arrived. Your presence is needed. Now. It’s very important."
Vivienne snapped her mouth shut so fast her teeth clicked. Thank every holy angel in heaven. Saved by the dull bastard.
André, who had looked almost eager to hear her sing, sighed. He turned back to her, his voice low and almost sweet. "Wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done. I want to hear you singing."
Vivienne nodded like a good obedient maid, but inside she was snarling. Dream on, you pompous prick. By the time you’re back I’ll be gone, and you’ll be singing to your fucking mirror instead.
The moment he stepped out with Bernard, she exhaled loudly and muttered, "Thank the heavens. I can’t believe my fucking mouth almost made me sing. What the hell is wrong with me."
Meanwhile, outside the lounge, Bernard walked quickly beside André.
"One of the explorers returned, your grace. He brought something... unusual. A sword, I believe. Ancient. There are whispers it carries magic."
André arched a brow, unimpressed. "Magic, sword, whatever. Who cares what tricks it does? Did you keep it with the others?"
Bernard shook his head. "No, your grace. I wanted you to see it first."
André gave a faint nod. His thoughts, though, strayed back to the lounge. She’ll be gone. Of course she will. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of me.
Inside, Vivienne had started pacing like a caged cat. She looked around at the chandelier, the tall glass windows, the velvet curtains, the gilded frames. Everything screamed wealth.
"It must be good to live like this," she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "What a lucky bastard. That’s why you need to get that horse, Vivienne. Then you can buy your own castle. Sleep on silk, bathe in rose petals, eat until you’re sick."
Her footsteps took her closer to the piano. She stopped, her hand brushing against the smooth polished wood. Immediately she pulled back.
"No. No no no. Don’t even think about it."
Her head was screaming: Get away from that stupid thing. Don’t touch it. Don’t you dare press a key. Run while you can. The bastard isn’t here—use this chance. Don’t sit down like some desperate lovesick fool.
But her body... oh her body loved betraying her.
She sat softly on the settee, as if the piano itself pulled her down. Her fingers hovered above the keys, trembling.
"God, I hate you, Vivienne," she whispered. "You are the dumbest creature alive."
Still, her hands lowered. She pressed one key. Then another.
The sound rose gently, almost shyly.
Her lips parted again. This time there was no one to stop her. A song slipped out, soft and low. Words she hadn’t thought about in years. A melody she’d carried since childhood.
Meanwhile André was returning, his footsteps steady. He thought bitterly, She’s gone. She must have run off. I shouldn’t have left her alone. She didn’t want to humiliate herself, after all.
But then he froze.
Music.
It wasn’t Bernard’s voice. It wasn’t the wind. It was the sound of a piano, slow and tender, followed by a voice.
Her voice.
André’s hand stilled on the door handle. His breath caught.
He opened the door quietly.
And there she was.
Vivienne sat at the piano, shoulders curved, hair falling to one side, fingers trembling but sure as they danced across the keys. And her voice—her voice filled the room.
Soft. Beautiful. Sad.
It wasn’t the mocking tone she always used with him. It wasn’t sarcasm. It wasn’t fury.
It was raw. Honest. Haunting.
André felt his chest tighten. Her voice... it’s beautiful. Too beautiful.
He stood there, unable to move, watching her as if under a spell.
Vivienne sang on, her eyes half-shut. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. She hated herself for it, but the song pulled itself out of her like an old wound bleeding open.
When the last note trembled into silence, she froze, her heart pounding.
A clap echoed through the room.
"Fuck!" she almost shouted, jerking around.
André stood at the door, clapping slowly.
"My lord," she blurted, cheeks hot.
He walked closer, his voice low. "That was beautiful."
Vivienne forced a shy little smile, lowering her gaze. "Thank you, my lord."
But in her head she was snarling: Please, for the love of everything, don’t make me sing love songs for you. If I have to sing about roses or hearts, I’ll slit my own throat.
André leaned against the piano. "Where did you learn to play and sing like that?"
Vivienne plastered on a fake innocent smile. "From the church, my lord."
Inside, she groaned. More like because Madame Mireille made me learn every goddamn thing on earth. Music, painting, languages, embroidery. The only thing she didn’t teach me was blacksmithing and murder. Although I’m pretty sure the first person I’ll murder is you.
André studied her. "Then why didn’t you pursue your dream?"
The question stabbed her in the stomach.
Her smile faltered. Her face changed in a way she couldn’t control. It wasn’t her usual smirk. It was unreadable, like a shadow crossing her.
She chuckled softly. "Not everyone’s dream is meant to come true."
André tilted his head, frowning slightly. Why... why does she sound sad?
He looked away, shaking his head. No. Not my business.
Vivienne quickly changed her tone, forcing lightness back into her voice. "What about you, my lord? What is your dream?"
He looked at her quietly, then said, "A poet."
For a second, silence.
Then Vivienne burst out laughing.
It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t controlled. It poured out of her like water. She laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach.
André blinked. "Why are you laughing?"
She gasped for breath, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s obvious."
In her head: So obvious. You look exactly like the kind of man who sits alone writing sad poems about little birds and dead flowers.
Out loud she said sweetly, "It really suits you, my lord. Really."
Her mind snorted. So obvious. You look exactly like the kind of sad bastard who writes poems about lonely little birds and crying flowers.
She lifted her eyes to him, still chuckling. "It really suits you, my lord. Truly."
Her laughter wouldn’t stop. Her chest shook. Tears almost came.
This is fucking hilarious. Oh God, I think I might actually cry. He’s serious. He actually said poet. Lord help me.
André said nothing. He just watched her.
Her laughter softened. She glanced up. Their eyes met.
He was still watching. But this time, there was something gentler there. Something steady.
Her lips still carried the ghost of a smile.
For a moment, the whole room felt quiet.
Neither of them looked away.
Her heart gave a single hard beat. His did too.
But inside both of their heads was the same truth.
I hate you.
I hate you so much.
And still... they couldn’t look away.