Chapter 143

Chapter 143
Vivienne's POV

The celebration swelled around me in waves of laughter and champagne toasts, but all I could see was Arthur's face going perfectly blank before he set down his napkin with careful precision and stood.

He walked out of the dining room with his spine straight and his pace measured, but there was something in the deliberateness of it that made my stomach drop.

I stood before I'd consciously decided to follow him, my champagne flute still half-full on the white tablecloth. No one looked up as I slipped away from the table and into the hallway.

The main hall was empty, chandeliers throwing geometric shadows across the marble floor. I caught a glimpse of Arthur's dark blue sweater disappearing around the corner toward the west wing—the oldest part of the estate, where the family kept the library and the smaller sitting rooms that no one used anymore.

My heels clicked too loudly against the floor as I followed, and I slowed my pace, suddenly uncertain whether I actually wanted to catch up to him or just needed to know he was alright.

He's not alright. He's definitely not alright.

The west wing fell quiet, party chatter fading behind me, leaving only my breath and a distant grandfather clock’s tick. Down the hall, a small wood-and-leather sitting room stood with its door ajar, warm lamplight seeping out alongside the sharp clink of glassware.

I paused outside, fingers hovering over the knob.

Peering through the crack, I spotted Arthur rigid on the leather sofa with his back turned. A whiskey bottle and crystal tumbler rested on the side table; he poured another drink mechanically and drained it in a single gulp.

Then he poured another.

The careful control in his movements was somehow worse than if he'd been sloppy about it. This was Arthur at his most dangerous—perfectly composed on the surface while something fundamental broke underneath.

I was about to push the door open when I heard it—the sharp crack of shattering glass.

My breath caught as I watched Arthur's hand close around the tumbler with enough force to shatter it, crystal fragments cutting into his palm, whiskey and blood mixing together and dripping onto the dark carpet in slow, deliberate drops.

He didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound. Just sat there staring at his bleeding hand like it belonged to someone else, like the pain was happening somewhere very far away.

"Arthur!" The word burst out before I could stop it, sharp with shock and fear. I pushed the door open and crossed the room in three quick steps. "What are you doing?!"

He looked up at me, and the emptiness in his eyes made my stomach clench. "I'm fine."

"Let me see your hand." I reached for him, but he pulled back slightly, his bloodied fingers curling into a fist.

"Vivienne, I said I'm fine."

"You're bleeding." My voice came out sharper than I intended, cracking slightly on the last word. I grabbed his wrist before he could pull away again. "Let me see."

For a moment I thought he might actually fight me on it, might use that perfect Vance family composure to freeze me out completely. But then something in his face shifted—not quite surrender, but close enough—and he let me take his hand.

The damage was worse up close. Glass fragments were still embedded in his palm, the cuts deep enough that blood welled up steadily. I forced myself to breathe through the nausea rising in my throat and carefully began to pry his fingers open, my touch as gentle as I could manage.

The largest piece of glass came free with a sickening sound, and fresh blood surged from the wound. I pressed my silk handkerchief against his palm, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.

"Stay still," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

I found a first aid kit in the decorative cabinet and brought it back to the sofa, kneeling in front of Arthur as I spread out antiseptic wipes and gauze on the tea table. My hands were shaking slightly as I opened the first packet, but I forced them steady as I began to clean the wounds.

Arthur sat perfectly still while I worked, his breathing controlled and even, his face a mask of careful neutrality. But I could feel the tension radiating from him, could see the slight tremor in his jaw that he couldn't quite suppress.

I removed the remaining glass fragments one by one, each extraction making my stomach turn even as I kept my expression calm.

"Does it hurt?" I asked quietly, wrapping clean gauze around his palm.

"No."

The lie was so obvious it was almost insulting. I paused in my work, my fingers stilling against his skin, and looked up at him.

"Because your heart hurts more, doesn't it?"

Arthur's eyes finally focused on me, really looked at me for the first time since I'd entered the room. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or recognition—before the mask slammed back into place.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't do that." My voice came out rougher than I intended as I resumed bandaging. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not after everything."

He didn't respond, just watched me work with that same distant expression, like he was observing something that didn't quite concern him.

I finished securing the bandage and sat back on my heels, my hands still trembling slightly as I gathered the bloodied wipes. The silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us wanted to say.

"You told me you'd try." The words came out before I could stop them, quiet and raw. "When we started this—when our families made the arrangement—you said you'd give us a chance. You said maybe..." My throat tightened. "Maybe you could learn to care for me."

Arthur's jaw worked, but no words came out.

"But you still can't, can you?" I continued, my vision blurring slightly. "Even after everything—even after she chose him—you still can't let her go."

The tears I'd been holding back finally spilled over, hot against my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my hand, leaving a smear of Arthur's blood across my skin that I didn't notice until it was too late.

"Eleanor doesn't love you anymore, Arthur." My voice broke on his name. "She's moved on. She's happy with Julian. So why can't you just..." I stopped, swallowing hard against the sob threatening to escape. "Why can't you try to be happy with me?"

Arthur's hand—the one I hadn't bandaged—moved slightly, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for me but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. The gesture was so small, so uncertain, that it hurt worse than if he'd said nothing at all.

I stood abruptly, putting distance between us, my evening gown sweeping against the carpet as I backed away. "This is about Eleanor and Julian, isn't it? Seeing them together—seeing her choose him—it's killing you."

I paused, gathering what remained of my composure. "But what about me, Arthur? I gave up Paris for you. I gave up my career, my apartment, the life I'd been building for myself. I threw myself into this relationship because I thought—" My voice cracked. "I thought if I loved you enough, if I was patient enough, you'd eventually feel something for me too."

Arthur finally spoke, his voice low and carefully controlled. " Vivienne, I'm sorry."

The words hit like a physical blow, even though I'd known—some part of me had always known—that this was how he saw it.

"No." I shook my head, more tears spilling over. "You knew that. I didn't. I thought..." I stopped, pressing my hand to my mouth to muffle the sob that escaped. "I thought you'd see me. Really see me. Not just as the appropriate choice, not just as the girl your family approved of, but as someone you could actually love."

Something shifted in Arthur's expression then, a crack splitting his flawless composure. He parted his lips, and for a split second I thought he might speak from the heart—until it dawned on me he was likely about to scrap the engagement.

"Don't." I held up my hand, cutting him off before he could speak. "Don't tell me you want to end this." My voice steadied slightly, the tears slowing even as my chest felt like it was caving in. "Because I'm not ready to hear it yet."