Vivienne and André were still in the dining room. The table was a mess. Silverware had fallen, bread crumbs were scattered, and the candles were bent slightly like they were tired of watching the madness that had just happened. Vivienne sat right on the table, her hair messy, her cheeks flushed, and her corset barely hanging on.
André, on the other hand, looked annoyingly composed, like he had just returned from a polite afternoon stroll. He reached out and caressed her face so gently that it made her sick. His hand was warm, his smile soft.
"I love you, Vivienne," he said quietly, as if he meant every word.
Vivienne wanted to vomit right there on the spot. She wanted to claw his eyes out and run far away. But instead, she forced herself to smile back at him, her hand sliding to his chest as if she adored him.
"I love you too," she said sweetly, even though in her mind she was spitting poison.
