Ravelle, a week later
Vivienne sat stiffly inside a wooden carriage beside a middle-aged woman. She wasn't dressed like her usual self. No drama. No jewels. No painted lips or perfume. Her dress was plain, the color of dried wheat. Her long hair was tied back into a simple braid, not a curl in sight. She looked so different from her usual bold and fiery self, it almost made her want to cry. Or throw up. Maybe both.
The woman beside her—a servant broker—gave her a soft, pitying look and gently held her hand.
"Don't worry, child," the woman said, her voice kind. "The Rousseau household isn't nasty. You'll make good money in no time."
Vivienne blinked, caught off guard by the woman's sudden kindness. Before she could respond, the woman added in a hushed, sorrowful tone, "Poor thing. Losing your husband like that. A widow at such a young age."
Vivienne almost laughed. She bit her lip hard to stop herself. Mireille—that crafty devil—must have cooked up the entire tragic backstory. A widow? Really? But fine, if that was the act she needed to sell, then so be it. She gave a long, shaky sigh, wiped at imaginary tears, and nodded slowly like a grieving widow holding onto the last thread of her dignity.
"Thank you," she whispered dramatically. "I'm just... grateful for this chance."
Finally, the carriage stopped. Vivienne leaned forward and peeked through the window. Her heart dropped.
It wasn't a house. It was a bloody palace.
The Rousseau château stood tall and wide, with carved pillars and endless windows. The stone walls looked ancient, proud, and terribly rich. Her jaw almost hit the floor. This place was gigantic. Mireille had said it was an easy job. That she just had to find a horse. A golden horse. But this? This was like trying to find a single coin buried in the ocean.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
She stepped out of the carriage and followed the broker through the servant gates. The air inside the estate was cold, and it smelled like polished wood and secrets. They were met by a tall, thin woman with sharp eyes and a mouth set in a straight, judging line.
"Madame Lefevre," the broker introduced.
Of course her name would be something cold and stiff like that.
Madame Lefevre did not smile. She didn't even nod.
"You'll be under my watch," she said without a hint of warmth. Her eyes scanned Vivienne from head to toe like she was inspecting a spoiled fruit. "Come."
They walked through a few narrow hallways as Madame Lefevre rambled on about the history of the château.
"...Built over two hundred years ago, passed down through the Rousseau bloodline... this carpet was imported from Persia..."
Vivienne barely heard a word. Her eyes were moving fast, scanning every corner, every locked door, every stairwell, trying to memorize the layout. She was already thinking about where something as valuable as a golden horse might be hidden.
But Madame Lefevre caught her.
She suddenly stopped, turned, and gripped Vivienne's chin with her cold fingers. Her sharp nails nearly scratched.
"I've seen girls like you," she said quietly, almost like a hiss. "Big eyes. Sad stories. Pretty faces. I don't care about your dead husband or your tears. I care about your work. You better prove you can actually clean and follow orders. Or you'll be out before your next breath."
She let go of Vivienne and handed her a plain wooden box. Inside were a few maid uniforms.
"You start at dawn."
Vivienne gave her a fake smile and nodded sweetly. "Yes, Madame."
"Geneviève!" the woman called.
A maid in her early thirties appeared. She had soft features and a tired smile.
"She'll be sharing your room. Show her the way. Both of you get some rest."
They bowed slightly and left. Geneviève's steps were quiet as she led the way.
"Don't take Madame Lefevre's words to heart," she said gently. "She's always like that."
Vivienne didn't reply. She knew full well that if she were wearing her usual dress and her real jewels, that woman wouldn't dare speak to her like that. But for now, she had to pretend. She had to be humble. Invisible. Obedient.
"I don't see the Duke," Vivienne asked quietly, curious.
Geneviève shrugged. "Don't expect to. He never leaves his chambers. I've been working here for six months and I haven't seen him once."
She leaned in a little. "Some say he's horribly ugly. That's why he hides."
Vivienne rolled her eyes. "He must be really ugly then," she muttered.
They reached a small, shared room and both collapsed into their beds. Sleep came fast.
At dawn, Vivienne woke up with a groan. She pulled on the maid's uniform slowly, dragging every button. She looked at her reflection in a cracked mirror.
She nearly screamed.
No lipstick. No earrings. Her hair tucked into a dull cap. She looked... harmless.
Geneviève, already dressed, smiled kindly. "You're really beautiful."
Vivienne stared at her own face. Beautiful?
"I look like a fucking virgin milkmaid," she mumbled under her breath. "I look like I feed goats and pray for a husband."
She didn't look dangerous anymore. She didn't look like the woman who made men lie, cheat, and burn down kingdoms for a night with her. She looked soft. Sweet. Like someone's little sister. She was offended.
The day was even worse. Scrubbing floors. Carrying water. Cleaning silverware. Everything smelled like dust and sweat. Her hands hurt. Her back ached. She cursed under her breath the whole morning.
But finally, when no one was watching, she slipped away.
She tiptoed through a hallway she hadn't explored before. This wing looked different. Old. Quiet. Almost forgotten. The air was thick and still. Curtains were drawn. Dust floated in sunbeams.
She slowly opened a door and peeked inside. It was dark. Empty.
She stepped in, heart racing.
Then—a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her out.
She gasped.
A young man stood in front of her, taller than she expected, with black hair that curled slightly at the ends and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. He looked like a painting. Or a sin.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly. "And why are you wandering around my château?"
Vivienne's mouth parted slightly. Her breath caught in her throat.
The Duke.
André Rousseau.
He was not ugly.
He was fucking beautiful.