Vivienne didn't move.
The air was heavy, silent—except for the slow tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner of the château's drawing room. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Damien stood before her, the blinking tracker at his back like a scarlet brand of betrayal.
Her heart pounded, but her voice was calm. "How long?"
He tilted his head, almost curious. "Since Berlin. Valentin gave me a choice. Prison… or purpose."
"So you became his puppet."
"I became his weapon. And I was very good at it… until you."
Vivienne narrowed her eyes. "Why stop now?"
He smiled faintly. "Because you weren't the enemy. You never were."
She stepped closer, the fireplace casting shadows across her face. "Then what am I?"
"The woman who changed everything."
The words hung between them, raw and dangerous.
"You lied to me," she said softly. "You stood beside me when Rosemoor burned. You touched me when I was grieving. You looked me in the eye and told me you were mine."
"I was," Damien whispered. "That's the problem."
Vivienne's fingers curled into fists. "Take off your shirt."
He blinked. "What?"
"Do it."
Damien obeyed.
Across his shoulder blades, an intricate tattoo stretched: the mark of the Orséa elite—a crimson rose split by a dagger. It was their brand. Their promise. And their curse.
"I had orders to infiltrate, earn your trust, eliminate if necessary," he said.
"And yet I'm still breathing," Vivienne replied coldly.
He looked down. "Because I couldn't follow through. Somewhere between loyalty and lies… I fell."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow crackle of the fire.
She turned away.
"You used me."
"No," he said, stepping forward. "I chose you."
She spun back around, her voice a blade. "You chose survival. You chose obedience. You didn't choose me—you chose convenience. Don't rewrite your betrayal with poetry."
His jaw clenched. "If you didn't mean something, they wouldn't have sent me."
Vivienne's gaze turned glacial. "Well. Let's send a message back, shall we?"
She strode past him, her heels echoing like gunshots against the marble floor. She walked to the desk and yanked open a drawer—pulling out the encrypted burner phone Julien had left.
"We leak it all. No more slow burns," she said. "The ledger. The connections. The body count. Tonight."
Damien hesitated. "Vivienne—if you do that, it's not just Valentin. Every corrupted soul in Orséa will want your head. You'll be hunted across borders."
"I already am," she said. "The only difference now is that the world will know why."
He stepped in front of her, blocking the door. "Let me help you."
"You've helped enough."
"You need someone who knows them."
"I need someone I can trust."
Their eyes locked.
And for a fleeting moment, beneath the fury and betrayal, something flickered—something darker than pain and deeper than hate.
Longing.
Regret.
Love, twisted by lies.
She reached slowly into her coat pocket and drew a small pistol. She didn't aim it at him—but placed it in his hand.
"Prove it," she said.
Damien stared at the weapon, then back at her.
"How?"
"Help me bring it all down," she said. "Everything. Valentin. The board. The empire."
"And if I betray you again?"
Her lips curved into something cold and beautiful. "I won't hesitate next time."
He nodded once, as though sealing his own fate.
---
By nightfall, the first wave of files hit the dark web.
Vivienne's name became synonymous with rebellion.
A storm brewed beyond the windows of the château. But inside, she felt still—clear. A woman no longer defined by grief, but by vengeance.
As for Damien, he remained nearby. Watching. Waiting.
And, for the first time, fighting for her cause—not as an infiltrator, but as a believer.
Whether she would ever let him truly in again… remained unwritten.
But war had a way of testing loyalty.
And Vivienne intended to test his to the end.