It had been a month. A whole fucking month of living in this ridiculous, unholy arrangement. A month since that lunatic proposal. A month of pretending to be head-over-heels in love with a man she wanted to murder with her bare hands. André and Vivienne, the perfect engaged couple in the eyes of everyone, while inside? Both of them were on the verge of snapping, and both knew it.
Vivienne woke up feeling like she had been dragged through hell, rolled in fire, and then shoved into a coffin just to wake up in it again. Her eyes opened slowly, and the first thing she noticed was the room. Her own room. And it looked like a mortuary. Gray light filtered in through the curtains, and she stared at everything with pure, seething hatred.
Then she looked at herself. Naked. Completely bare. Every mark, every bruise, every hickey, a testament to the debauchery of last night. She traced the faded lines on her skin with a finger and almost screamed.
