Vivienne and André walked side by side down the long hallway, both pretending to be calm, both looking like they just came out of a painting titled "The Perfect Couple of Ravelle."
Inside, they were both dying.
The sound of their footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor. Every step felt heavier than the last. The silence between them was so thick it could strangle someone. Vivienne's chest felt tight, her heartbeat loud enough that she feared André could hear it. Her palms were sweating even though the air was cool. She tried to focus on the chandeliers, the paintings, the carpet—anything but the man walking next to her.
"Oh dear God," she thought, trying to keep her face calm. "What have I done? What have I done? This is pure madness. Absolute, shiny madness. Why did I not die last night instead of… whatever that was?"
