The church was quiet.
Still. Silent. Holy.
Until she entered.
The doors creaked open, and for a moment, the light from the rain-washed morning spilled inside. Then it was swallowed by a woman too beautiful to be real.
Vivienne Moreau.
Twenty-eight. Too stunning. Too sinful. Too much.
Black hair tumbled down her back like ink. Her lips were flushed and bitten red, parted just enough to hint at madness. Her eyes were bright, too bright—icy blue and wide with obsession. Her corset was too tight, her waist too small, her breasts too proud. She was walking sex and sabotage. Every step was a threat. Every sway of her hips promised sin.
She didn't walk—she glided. Her heels echoed through the chapel like judgment.
She threw open the confessional door and sat like she owned God Himself.
The priest inside choked on his breath.
"Forgive me, Father," she breathed, voice trembling with too much lust, too much laughter, too much chaos, "for I have sinned."
The priest was already sweating.
"What... what sin brings you here today, my child?"
She burst out laughing. Not gently. Not politely. A wild, choked laugh like she was halfway between crying and choking on a memory.
"Fornication! Every day. Every. Single. Day. With a man I loathe."
The priest blinked. "You... loathe him?"
"I hate him!" she shrieked. "I hate his perfect face! His velvet voice! His delicate little hands! And the way he makes me come like a madwoman!"
The priest opened his mouth to speak—
But Vivienne held up a finger, cutting him off. "Before you come at me with your usual nonsense—no. I did not seduce him."
She gave a little huff, crossed her arms. "At least not this time."
"I wanted to. Really," she admitted, a flicker of guilt flashing in her eyes. "But he… he got there first. He looked me dead in the eye and said he loved me. I swear I did nothing."
The priest crossed himself.
"He looks like an angel," she went on, eyes wild. "He's twenty-four. Too tall. Black curls. Blue eyes that look like sorrow and secrets. He speaks softly. Never raises his voice. Dresses in white. Reads to me in bed. Reads to me, Father! And then he destroys me with a smile."
"You mean... sexually?"
"OH YES," she moaned, hands gripping the sides of the booth. "He puts me on my knees, lifts my skirts, fingers me until I beg. Then he ruins me so slowly I forget who I am. And then, THEN, he has the audacity to kiss my forehead like I'm a nun."
The priest had gone ghostly white.
"He fucked me in the dining room, Father. During dinner. I was halfway through a roasted duck. He moved the silverware and said, 'Let me feed you something better.' I came on his cock while biting a piece of bread."
"DEAR LORD!"
"He's planning our wedding! Did I mention that? I said yes. Of course I said yes. He gave me a ring while he was still inside me. Said, 'You're mine now, Vivienne.'"
The priest backed away.
"But you hate him?"
"I HATE HIM MORE THAN I HATE MYSELF!" she screamed. "But he makes me feel like I'm his fucking religion! And the worst part? I was sent to steal from him. I was supposed to trick him. But now I wear his jewelry and ride his cock and cry when he tells me I'm beautiful!"
The priest stumbled to his feet.
She stood, laughing through the tears.
"He makes me sob while calling me his salvation. Then he ties my hands and fucks me until I can't walk straight. Is that love? Is that hate? I DON'T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE!"
"YOU DEMON!"
"I'M NOT A DEMON, I'M JUST REALLY PRETTY!" she shouted back. "It's not my fault he's obsessed with me! Honestly, I would be too!"
The priest stood up. He was trembling. "You are unholy. You are cursed. You daughter of Jezebel."
"Oh please," she snapped. "You wish you were him. The things he does to me would send you to Hell on sight. You wouldn't last two minutes between my legs."
She stood, fixed her bodice, and dropped a gold coin in the tray.
"He gave me that," she said proudly. "After he ruined my throat and made me beg for forgiveness while he fucked me over his desk."
The priest collapsed to his knees, muttering, "Lord save me… I have heard the Devil's daughter speak…"
Vivienne twirled once, smiled, and walked out of the church as if nothing happened.
---
High above in the windows of Ravelle Manor, André watched her return.
He sat with a book in his lap, his robe slightly parted, bare chest glowing in the pale light.
His dark curls were damp. His blue eyes soft. He looked like a portrait of sorrow. A poet. A dream. A Twenty-four years old living fairytale.
But his lips curved into a tiny, wicked smile.
"She's unravelling," he murmured. "Good."
---
A knock at the door.
"It's me… Vivienne, my lord," came the voice, too sweet to be real.
He rose slowly, smoothed his hair, and opened the door.
She stood there flushed and breathless. Her bodice slightly askew. She looked insane. And beautiful. He wanted to cage her and ruin her all over again.
He softened instantly and reached out.
"I told you," he said softly. "Call me André."
"You're back," he whispered, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Where did you go?"
"I went to pray for our wedding," she lied.
He pulled her into a gentle hug.
"That's why I love you, Vivienne," he said with the softest smile. "You're the only one who truly sees me."
He held her tight, like she was the only person left in the world.
And behind his kind expression, André thought:
"I really want to snap your spine in two. But I'd rather keep kissing it."
And Vivienne, eyes closed against his chest, whispered in her mind:
"Tell me where the bloody golden horse is, or I'll stab you in your sleep with your own fountain pen."