Vivienne strolled through the corridors of André's chambers, her heels clacking on the polished floor with every irritated step. The sound echoed like tiny hammers of frustration. She wasn't walking—she was stomping. Her hair, which had once been carefully pinned, had fallen loose from running around, tumbling over her shoulders in wild waves that made her look like some beautiful, furious madwoman. Not that she cared. Actually, she did care. But not right now. Right now, she was too angry.
"Where's that goddamn idiot bastard?" she muttered under her breath, voice sharp like a whip. Her lips curled as she scanned the hall, eyes darting into corners as if the man could be hiding behind a curtain or crouching under a chair like a dramatic little rat.
She had searched his room—every corner, every nook. He wasn't there. He wasn't in the damned bath either, which would have been a good place for him to drown. She let out a sigh so heavy it could have cracked the ceiling.
