The room was so still that even the sound of the fire seemed afraid to move.
Vivienne stood in the middle of it, lost in that deep purple gown that wrapped around her like midnight silk. The color didn't belong to innocence or sweetness. It belonged to sin, to secrets, to women who smiled while planning murder. It was her kind of color — bold, shameless, dangerous.
André looked at her like she had just walked out of one of his forbidden dreams. His teacup was half-raised, forgotten. A book slid quietly from his lap, falling to the carpet without a sound. Neither of them noticed.
For a moment, it felt like the whole world stopped breathing.
Vivienne's palms were damp. Her throat tightened, but she refused to move. She didn't understand that look in his eyes. It wasn't just desire. It wasn't admiration. It was darker. It was the kind of stare that stripped her bare without touching her — the kind that made her want to run and slap him at the same time.
