Chapter 2 The Poisonous Whispers
Vivienne's POV
The ballroom buzzed like a hive someone had just kicked.
I felt every stare like needles.
“Who is that tramp hanging off Raphael Moreau?”
“She looks like she mugged a rock star and stole his wardrobe.”
“Shouldn’t the future Madame Moreau at least pretend to be civilized?”
Raphael didn’t flinch. If anything, the whispers seemed to amuse him. He kept one possessive hand at the small of my back while he slid the engagement ring, an obscene cushion-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds onto my finger as if it had always belonged there.
The applause that followed was thin, polite, and entirely for his benefit.
The second the orchestra struck the final note, I tried to escape. Three women in couture gowns materialised like perfumed vultures, blocking her path.
“Which family are you from, exactly?”
“That outfit is a crime against silk. Did you dress in the dark?”
“Do you honestly believe you’re fit to breathe the same air as Monsieur Moreau?”
I flashed a razor-sharp smile and stepped around them. Their leader, tall, blonde, dripping old money wasn’t finished.
“In terms of taste, darling, the three of us combined still wouldn’t qualify to polish Raphael’s shoes. But tell me, has he ever let you within arm’s length before tonight?”
“How dare you…”
The blonde smirked. “Exactly. Apologise, or we’ll make sure you never leave this room upright.”
Across the marble floor, a young man in a midnight-blue tux raised his glass toward Raphael.
“Zeke Valcour,” he called, grinning like a shark. “Where did you dig her up, cousin? Grandfather is going to have a stroke when he sees this one.”
Raphael’s voice was lazy, lethal. “He wants a granddaughter-in-law. I delivered one. Gender confirmed, pulse present. Mission accomplished.”
Zeke laughed. “As long as it’s warm and breathing, right?”
My fingers curled into fists inside the folds of my leather jacket. Raphael felt it; his thumb brushed once across my spine, a silent order to hold still.
The three vultures closed in again, phones already out, ready to immortalise her humiliation for every society page from Monaco to Saint-Tropez.
Raphael turned his head, just enough for the chandeliers to catch the ice in his eyes.
“Touch her,” he said, soft enough that only the people closest heard, “and I’ll ruin every last one of you before breakfast.”
The circle froze.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
In the sudden hush, Raphael leaned down until his lips grazed my beautiful ear.
“Keep breathing, sauvageonne. The night is young, and I haven’t even started playing yet.”
Zeke clicked his tongue, swirling the champagne in his glass. “Out of every woman breathing, cousin, you had to pick that one?”
Raphael lifted his flute in a lazy toast, eyes never leaving me. “Her mouth tastes like rebellion. I’m partial.”
Zeke choked on his drink.
A sharp splash cut through the music. One of the three society vultures had “accidentally” flung her red wine straight across my jacket.
Zeke’s brows shot up. “Looks like your little wildcat is getting disciplined. Not stepping in?”
Raphael’s smile never wavered. “Watch.”
I didn’t flinch. Instead, with terrifying calm, I seized the blonde’s perfectly coiffed hair with my left hand, the brunette’s with my right, and slammed their heads together with a crack that silenced half the ballroom.
The two women crumpled like silk handkerchiefs. The third stumbled backward, mouth open in a silent scream.
I dusted my palms together, over the groaning heap, and flicked my wrist at the remaining woman.
“Move.”
The woman practically levitated out of her way.
Zeke let out a low whistle. “Now I understand the appeal.”
Raphael’s gaze had gone dark, predatory, and unmistakably pleased.
Lucien appeared at his elbow. “Sir, shall I escort her to change?”
Raphael didn’t answer him. He was already moving.
I found myself backed against a marble pillar, Raphael’s large frame blocking out the room. The air between us crackled.
“You’re insane,”I hissed.
“You just knocked out two heiresses with one move,” he murmured, voice velvet and smoke. “I’m in love.”
I glared up at him. Is he serious right now? “All I did was borrow your lips for three seconds and now I’m apparently engaged to you. Don’t you think you’re overreacting? A simple thank-you would’ve worked. Or money. I accept cash.”
His smile turned slow and dangerous. He braced one hand beside my head, caging me in.
“Name your price, sauvageonne. How much is a single kiss from Raphael Moreau worth to you?”
I studied the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the wicked curve of his mouth, the heat rolling off him in waves. For the first time that night, something that wasn’t anger flickered through me and I felt it so strongly.
I rose on tiptoe, still nowhere near his height and let my lips hover a breath from his.
“More than you can afford,” I whispered.
Then I slipped under his arm and walked away, leaving him staring after me like a man who’d just been handed the one thing on earth he couldn’t buy.
Raphael’s eyes narrowed, amusement sharpening into something far more lethal.
“Name it,” he said, voice low. “And don’t insult me with a number under thirty million. You’re not a teenager, and we both know that wasn’t your first kiss. Make it worth my time.”
I laughed, short, incredulous, glorious. Lucien actually winced. Thirty million euros for a three-second kiss? The man was either insane or had never been told no in his life.
Raphael lifted one hand. Lucien stepped back instantly.
He hooked a single finger under my chin, tilting my face to his. The touch was light, but the air around us turned electric.
“You embarrassed me in front of the entire city,” he murmured. “Own it. Or run. Your choice.”
My smile turned feral. “Can I at least use the ladies’ room first, darling fiancé? Unless you want me to pee
on your marble floor in protest?”
Raphael stared for a beat, then flicked two fingers at Lucien. “Take her.”