i'm up to no good, really... @vivacesole - Tumblr Blog

𝒜𝓁𝓂ℴ𝓈𝓉

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁𝓋ℯ𝓇𝓈ℴ 𝒹ℯ𝓈𝓈ℯ𝓃𝒹𝓇ℯ 𝓍 𝒿ℴ𝓊𝓇𝓃𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉!𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇.⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Enemies to Friends to Lovers- Enemies to Lovers - Touch-Starved Verso - Emotional/Psychological Abuse - Loneliness - Alternate Universe / Canon Divergence - The Dessendre Family Needs Therapy (Clair Obscur: Expedition 33) - Verso Needs a Hug - Depressed Verso - Reader is a journalist - Very rare use of Y/n - Smut will come later

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. When a bold letter earns Y/n, a young art journalist, a month-long stay at the legendary Dessendre Manor, she expects to document the genius of Renoir and Aline Dessendre—the most enigmatic artistic duo in France.

What she doesn’t expect is their son.

Verso Dessendre—brilliant pianist, reluctant heir, walking contradiction.

Their first meeting is a disaster: she mistakes him for a staff member, he flirts—then freezes the moment he learns her purpose. “Ah. One of those,” he says, and the war begins.

But beneath the manor’s gilded ceilings and flickering shadows, hostility twists into fascination. Late-night encounters grow charged, secrets unravel, and the piano begins to sound different when she’s near.

❛ ao3 ⋅ requests ⋅ Part 2❜

➜ ┊: chapter 1/4. ~5K.

‘Our ‘almost’ will always haunt me.’

The Dessendre Manor rose at the end of the gravel drive like something pulled from a painting you’d once studied under the soft yellow lamps of your university library—impressive, yes, but in the way thunderstorms were impressive: beautiful from the distance, overwhelming once you stood beneath their weight.

It was a house that carried its history not as decoration but as gravity, its symmetrical façade and tall, austere windows watching you with the same heavy expectation as a museum guard standing a little too close to remind you not to touch anything. Others spoke of it with reverence, as if stepping inside was akin to entering a cathedral carved from artistry and genius. And perhaps, in a way, it was.

But as you stood at the foot of the manor with your suitcase trembling slightly in your hand, the feeling that threaded up your spine was not awe—it was an intricate blend of dread and disbelief.

Only a week ago, the idea of being invited into this place would have made you laugh in that slightly hysterical way reserved for impossible dreams. You had always admired the Dessendres’ work from the respectful distance of a student—Aline’s sharp, delicate lines that seemed to breathe on the canvas, Renoir’s deep colors that felt like you could step into them and be swallowed whole.

You had written essays about them that your professors praised, had spent long nights tracing the evolution of their styles from early exhibitions to private collections, had once even joked that you’d sell your soul for a glimpse into their studio. And then, with the kind of reckless boldness born from equal parts desperation and passion, you had written the letter.

A letter too direct, your friends had said. Too presumptuous. Too forward.

A letter in which you dared to express not only your fascination, but your belief that it would be a tragedy—yes, you had written the word, and yes, you still flushed at the memory—to allow their artistry to fade into fragmented anecdotes simply because they disliked Writers—and that journalists were different.

You had told them that their process deserved to be preserved, that their devotion deserved a witness, and that you, humble as you were, would be honored to be that witness. You had imagined the letter tossed into the fire.

Or worse—read aloud in a mocking tone over dinner.

You had never imagined Renoir Dessendre himself replying.

You reread his invitation so many times the ink practically warmed under your thumb, each line more impossible than the last. A month-long stay. Full access to the atelier. Documentation for a cultural journal and, perhaps—he had written gracefully, almost offhandedly—an artistic recueil if the collaboration proved fruitful.

It had felt too unreal to believe. Now, standing before the looming manor, its shadow stretching long across the wintry lawn, it felt almost too real to bear.

You drew in a breath that tasted faintly of frost and old stone, squared your shoulders, and stepped toward the heavy doors—doors that would open you into the world of Aline and Renoir Dessendre, into their sanctuary of creation. Unaware, of course, that it would also open you into the path of the one person in this house who would have rather slammed those doors shut.

The door opened with the soft groan of old hinges, releasing a breath of warm air scented faintly with polished wood and something floral you couldn’t name. A housekeeper—stern-faced, impeccably dressed, and far more elegant than anyone had a right to be while answering a door—looked you over with the composed precision of someone who had seen decades of guests and could sort them instantly into categories you were certain you didn’t want to know.

Before you could muster a greeting that didn’t sound like you were about to apologize for your own existence, a familiar voice called from deeper inside the foyer.

“Ah, mademoiselle Y/n! You’ve arrived. Finally! I was beginning to fear the train had decided to keep you for itself.”

Renoir Dessendre appeared with the kind of presence that seemed to draw the room toward him. Not through force or intimidation—though he certainly could have commanded both—but through warmth, genuine and unguarded, the kind you hadn’t expected from a man whose name carried the weight of museums, collectors, and whispered genius.

He strode toward you, cane in hand, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, his hair more silver than the portraits you’d studied, but somehow he looked more alive than any image had captured. He took your hand, as if greeting an old friend rather than an untested journalist who had practically begged her way into his home.

“Welcome, welcome. You must be frozen.” His voice carried a melodic cadence, softened by years of speaking over the scratch of brushes and the hum of creativity. “Come in quickly before the cold decides to steal you.”

You stepped inside, the door shutting behind you with a quiet finality. The manor swallowed you in its grandeur—the high ceilings, the dark wooden beams, the glint of art deco fixtures catching the light like scattered stars. It was beautiful. It was overwhelming. It was exactly what you had dreamed and nothing like anything you had been prepared for.

Renoir kept speaking as he guided you further inside, his hand still lightly at your elbow, as though you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you. “We’re very glad you’re here. Aline has been restless all day, asking every hour if you’ve arrived. She does not like waiting.” He chuckled, but there was a note of truth beneath it.

Your heart stumbled slightly at the mention of her.

Aline Dessendre.

The woman whose work had shaped entire movements. The razor-souled artist whose gaze in photographs always seemed two seconds away from slicing through whoever held the camera. The countless stories you’d heard floated up without invitation—her sharp tongue, her perfectionism, her disdain for critics.

You had always assumed that fame carved pieces out of people until only brilliance—or ego—remained.

That the price of renown was humanity, that the higher one climbed, the more you had to shed. The Dessendres were legends, myths almost. Too extraordinary to be ordinary, too prolific to be gentle. You had never dared imagine warmth from them. Yet here Renoir was, beaming at you with the easy sincerity of a man welcoming someone into a family home rather than into the private sanctum of two artistic giants.

“Come,” he said, guiding you toward the heart of the manor. “Aline will want to see you immediately.”

You barely had time to take in more than a blur of polished wood, gilded frames, and the hush of old luxury before Renoir was already guiding you down a long corridor, his pace brisk enough that you had to gather your suitcase closer to your side and hurry to match him.

Every instinct in you wanted to slow down, to absorb every detail, to memorize the geometry of the staircase and the way the winter light fractured through the tall windows—but admiration would have to wait. Renoir Dessendre moved with the certainty of a man whose life had been spent in motion, answering inspiration as it struck, expecting others to simply keep up.

You swallowed your awe and followed.

“Thank you,” you managed, breath slightly unsteady from nerves more than speed. “Truly, monsieur Dessendre, I can’t express how grateful I am for—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, waving a paint-stained hand dismissively. “If anyone should be grateful, it is us. Your letter was the first honest one we’ve received in years. No flattery, no pretension. Just curiosity.” His smile deepened. “Curiosity is something we value here.”

You weren’t sure whether to preen at the compliment or shrink under the pressure of what it implied. So you simply nodded, trying to convey sincerity rather than the internal chaos spiraling inside you.

Renoir led you through another hallway that opened into a wing stretching deeper into the manor. The air thickened with the unmistakable scents of turpentine, linseed oil, chalk dust, and wet pigment—the perfume of creation. Your pulse quickened. This was it. The heart of the house.

“The atelier is just ahead,” he said as he pushed open a tall door, “Aline insisted you see it before anything else. She believes a person’s first impression of a studio reveals something fundamental about them.”

You tried very hard not to read too much into that. “And she is… expecting me right now?” you asked, suddenly aware of how your palms were sweating despite the chill outside.

“Expecting, waiting—there is little difference with my wife.” Renoir chuckled, but there was a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, the kind a man gets when he loves someone formidable.

You clutched the strap of your bag a little tighter.

“Still,” you whispered, almost tripping on the final step as the atelier door swung open wider, “thank you so much for this opportunity. I… I won’t take a second of it for granted.”

Renoir paused just inside the threshold and turned back toward you, his expression softening into something almost paternal. “I know you won’t. That is why you are here.”

And with that, he stepped aside. So you could see everything.

The atelier opened before you like a cathedral of color and light—wide, high-ceilinged, flooded with the pale Parisian sun. Canvases leaned in regimented rows along the walls, half-finished portraits staring back with uncanny lifelike gazes. Pigments dusted every surface like settled stardust. It was grandiose, overwhelming, the sort of room that swallowed sound and expectation whole.

And at its center stood Aline Dessendre.

She didn’t turn immediately. She didn’t need to. Her presence filled the space long before her gaze did—cold, poised, composed with a precision that could cut. Where Renoir radiated warmth in every gesture, Aline was winter distilled into a woman. Dark hair bound in a severe knot, a pearl-buttoned blouse without a single crease, eyes the color of polished steel sliding toward you in a slow, appraising movement.

Whatever stories you had heard about her—her ruthlessness, her genius, her exacting standards—they suddenly felt less like gossip and more like simple reportage. You swallowed discreetly, steadying your voice before it could betray nerves. “Madame Dessendre,” you managed, offering the smallest, respectful incline of your head, “thank you for agreeing to let me observe your process. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Her expression didn’t soften. It didn’t change at all. A fleeting glance traveled from your shoes to your eyes, measuring, weighing, discerning something you couldn’t guess.

Renoir chimed cheerfully beside you, as though to cushion the impact. “She’s eager, Aline. Very professional. I think you’ll enjoy having her around.”

Aline’s gaze held yours for a beat longer—too long—before she replied, her tone smooth but glacial. “We’ll see.” The words were neither welcome nor rejection. Just a verdict deferred.

You forced a steady breath, spine straightening, refusing to let awe or intimidation carve the first impression you gave her. So you met her cold stare with quiet resolve, offering a faint, polite smile. “I’m looking forward to learning from the both of you.”

Renoir drifted deeper into the atelier, already shedding his coat and rolling up his sleeves, but Aline’s attention flicked toward him as though cued by instinct. They exchanged a few quiet words—efficient, practiced, the cadence of two people who had spent a lifetime creating both art and empire side by side.

“Her room?” Renoir asked, glancing back at you with a warm, reassuring smile. “I was thinking the east wing—good light in the mornings, close enough to the atelier so she won’t have to cross the whole house every day.”

Aline wiped her fingertips on a linen cloth, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “No,” she countered, tone cool but not unkind. “The east wing is occupied.”

Renoir raised a brow. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday evening.” Aline didn’t sigh—but something wry ghosted over her lips. “Verso arrived unannounced again.”

There was no mistaking the subtle change in her voice when she spoke her son’s name. The frost in her tone thawed, replaced by something soft and fond—an undercurrent of maternal indulgence she did not bother hiding.

Renoir chuckled, shaking his head. “He said he wouldn’t be back until next month.”

Aline’s answer was immediate, almost automatic. “He changed his mind.”

She continued, straightening with a kind of regal decisiveness. “Put her in the south corridor. The guest room with the balcony. It is far enough from Verso’s space that he won’t complain.”

Then, as though the memory of him opened a tiny window into her warmth, Aline allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “You know how he is when he composes. He prefers not to be disturbed.”

Renoir laughed, bright and affectionate. “Prefers? No—he demands it.”

Aline’s eyes sharpened in amusement. “He is brilliant. Let him be eccentric.”

You stood quietly, absorbing their exchange—this glimpse of domestic familiarity behind the legend. The way Aline’s voice softened when she spoke of her son was unmistakable, a warmth she hadn’t extended to anyone else in the room. It was striking… and unexpectedly humanizing.

Renoir turned back to you with a gentle clap of his hands.

“Perfect. We’ll show you your room once Aline finishes her mix here. Make yourself at home, mademoiselle.”

Aline nodded once in acknowledgment, already returning to her palette—her world of color—and yet the echo of “Verso” lingered in the air, a name carrying weight, fondness, and, perhaps, complications you had not yet begun to understand.

—

You didn’t do much on your first day—or rather, they did not give you much to do.

Renoir and Aline worked with a kind of intensity that left little room for conversation, their focus so honed it felt almost sacrilegious to interrupt. So you lingered quietly at the edge of the atelier, notebook closed, observing the way their brushes moved, the rhythm of their speech, the strange and silent language only artists of equal genius seemed to share.

By the time the sun began tilting toward evening, your presence had become part of the background, a tolerated shadow against the wall. A housekeeper eventually approached you with a polite smile and informed you that you could settle into your room before dinner as he took your bags gracefully.

Renoir, wiping his hands on a paint-stained cloth, repeated his directions—down the main hall, left at the staircase, follow the corridor with the gold sconces, and the dining room will be just past your quarters—as though he’d been giving tours of the manor his entire life.

You thanked him, and slipped out of the atelier.

The manor’s corridors stretched long and velvety around you, dressed in deep colors and gold accents, as if every wall carried the weight of a century. You walked slowly, half in awe, half trying to commit each turn to memory. Renoir’s instructions guided you true, and after a few minutes you pushed open the tall door leading into what looked less like a “living area” and more like an entire salon—wide windows, dark wood floors, and an elegant table set for far more people than you assumed would actually dine there.

Only one chair was occupied.

A teenage girl sat perched at the long table, legs swinging under her seat. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, with ginger hair neatly braided down her back and a posture far too poised for someone her age. Her eyes—sharp, curious, and unmistakably Dessendre—lifted from the book before her the moment she heard your step. You froze for half a second.

She blinked at you. You blinked back.

Then, with a calmness and manners that suggested rigorous training, the girl closed her book and folded her hands on the table. “You must be the journalist,” she said, voice soft but precise, as though reciting a line she had memorized perfectly. Alicia Dessendre—there was no doubt.

You nodded gently and offered her a small, uncertain smile before taking the seat across from her. The chair was heavier than it looked, its polished wood groaning softly against the parquet floor. As if your presence alone had been the signal they were waiting for, a housekeeper appeared from a side door almost instantly, gliding forward with a tray of steaming dishes. Silverware chimed softly as plates were set before you both, the manor’s quiet breathing filling the spaces between sounds.

Alicia didn’t reach for her fork. She watched you instead, her pale blue eyes—so like Aline’s, so like Renoir’s—shining with a strange mix of curiosity and resignation.

“Is it… only us for dinner?” you asked gently, trying to keep your tone neutral, polite. You didn’t want to pry, but the emptiness of such a large room felt impossible to ignore.

Alicia gave a small, practiced shrug, the movement too elegant for someone her age but too weary to be anything but familiar. “I usually eat alone,” she said simply.

Your heart dipped.

She went on with an eerie calmness, as if reporting on the weather. “Papa and Maman are always working. They say it’s easier to keep painting while they’re in the flow. They don’t like to stop.”

You thought back to the atelier—how the Dessendres seemed to merge with their canvases, devoured by creation. Alicia’s eyes dropped briefly to her untouched plate. “And Cléa is away for the week. She doesn’t like being here when they’re working on a big project.”

There was a small pause before she added the last part, quieter, though not for lack of confidence—rather, it felt like a confession wrapped in inevitability. “And Verso… he won’t come. Not if there’s a chance he’ll run into them.” The way she said his name—Verso—held a peculiar warmth, a softening around the syllables that didn’t match the tension you’d sensed from Aline earlier.

“So,” Alicia concluded, lifting her fork at last with a delicate sigh, “it’s just me. I hope it’s fine for you.” Alicia’s fork scraped softly against the porcelain as she finally took a small bite. You followed her lead, though your appetite felt dulled by the weight of her words, by the cavernous quiet of the room.

A flicker of protectiveness stirred in you—unexpected, instinctive—at the sight of this graceful, quiet girl speaking of loneliness as if it were simply part of the family architecture. You rested your hands lightly on the edge of the table, keeping your voice gentle.

“Well,” you said, offering her a warmer smile, “I don’t mind sharing dinner with you, if you don’t mind sharing with me.”

Alicia paused mid-bite. Her pale blue eyes lifted, studying you. Then, subtly, her shoulders eased.“I don’t mind,” she said. “You’re… different from the others who come here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Others?”

“Journalists. Collectors. People who want something from us.”

She stabbed a piece of roasted carrot, then added lightly, “They never talk to me.”

That struck deeper than you wanted it to.

“Well, that’s their loss,” you replied with a cheerful smile. “You seem like the most interesting person in the house.”

Alicia blinked—surprised, or maybe simply unused to being addressed as anything other than an afterthought. A faint flush touched her cheeks; it made her look her age for the first time.

“What about you?” she asked. “Why did you come? You don’t look like someone who chases fame.”

You let out a soft breath, taken aback by her perceptiveness. “I… came because your parents’ work deserves to be remembered properly. Because artists like them don’t come around often.”

Alicia held your gaze, “And because you love art,” she added quietly.

Your lips parted. “Yes,” you admitted. “A lot.”

Alicia nodded, as if confirming something she had suspected all along.

There was a small silence—comfortable, almost fragile—before she continued, her voice dipping conspiratorially: “If you’re staying here a month… you’ll see him eventually.”

“Verso?” you asked, careful not to let your curiosity color the word too much.

She nodded. “He says he hates this place. But he always comes back.”

“Why?”

Alicia looked down at her plate, and for the first time, the practiced poise wavered.

“Because I’m here,” she murmured.

It was so soft you almost missed it.

—

Alicia grew unexpectedly talkative as the meal unfolded, as though something inside her had quietly unlocked. Once the initial formality dissolved, she spoke with a soft eagerness, telling you which hallways creaked at night, which portraits were rumored to move slightly when the lights were dimmed, and how the gardens seemed to breathe differently after rain.

She told you about Cléa—how her older sister was brilliant but restless, always fleeing the manor with the speed of someone running from her own reflection. She spoke, too, of their parents’ obsession with perfection, how it swallowed days, meals, birthdays, and sometimes entire seasons without warning.

And she laughed a little, shyly, when you asked about the elegant piano you’d passed.

“That’s Verso’s,” she said. “He plays at night. Always at night.”

A pause. “He says the piano listens better when the house sleeps.”

By the time dessert plates were cleared away, you realised the oppressive silence you had expected from the manor had been replaced, at least for now, by Alicia’s quiet company. When you both finally rose from the table, she walked with you through the long hallway, the chandelier above scattering soft amber light over the parquet floor.

“My room is the closest to yours,” she explained, pointing down a narrower corridor. “Mama says it’s good for me to be near the guest wing. It teaches me manners.”

Her tone suggested she was unconvinced of this reasoning, but she smiled anyway, small and sincere. You returned the smile, grateful for this fragile bridge she was offering.

You said goodnight softly.

Alicia retreated to her door, pausing once to glance back at you before slipping inside.

The corridor fell silent.

You took a slow breath and continued walking toward your own room, trying to memorize the layout: the tall windows drowning in heavy curtains, the sculpted wall panels, the faint scent of old books and linseed oil that seemed embedded in the air.

Renoir’s directions had been clear, but the manor’s scale made you second-guess every turn. You passed a series of closed doors, each identical in its ornate frame, until finally—you reached yours.

Or at least, you hoped you did.

You tested the handle.

Locked.

Odd. Renoir had said—

A soft sigh escaped you. Perhaps you had mixed something up after all.

You turned around, scanning the dim corridor for help. The sconces flickered faintly, casting long shifting shadows on the walls. Just as you were debating which direction to take, footsteps approached from the darker end of the hall. Steady. Unhurried. You straightened instinctively.

A figure emerged from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in the crisp uniform, in simple dark clothes that could have belonged to anyone in the house. His hair fell in soft dark waves around his face, catching the low light like strands of fire, and in the dim glow, his eyes—icy pale, unmistakably Dessendre eyes—seemed almost luminescent.

But you didn’t notice that at first.

You noticed the way he moved: effortlessly, noiselessly, like someone familiar with every secret step of the manor. “Bonsoir,” you said, relieved. “Excuse me—could you help me? Renoir must have given me the wrong room key.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. He simply looked at you, head slightly tilted, as if cataloguing the sight of you—your presence in his corridor, your misplaced confidence, your mistake.

Then— A slow curve of his lips. Not polite. Not warm. Amused.

“I’m not staff, I don't wander around with a spare set of keys. You can imagine how heavy it would be in my pocket.” he said, voice low and smooth.

You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Oh—my apologies, I didn’t mean—”

He raised a hand, silencing your apology without saying a word, still wearing that faint, entertained half-smile. He stepped closer, leaning one shoulder casually against the wall beside your locked door, as though he had every right to occupy your air, your space, your breath.

You hesitated under his gaze, embarrassed by the mistake but grateful he hadn’t laughed outright. His smile—lazy, crooked, undeniably handsome—made him look far softer than the rumors suggested. If anything, he seemed amused in a way that felt… oddly intimate, as though your error had given him a private joke to savor.

“I truly am sorry,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t mean to assume. I’m still learning my way around the house.”

“That much is obvious,” he replied, a soft huff of laughter warming his voice. “Most guests get lost at least twice before dinner.”

His tone surprised you—light, teasing, almost kind. He didn’t seem bothered by your presence at all; if anything, he seemed entertained by it. He leaned toward you, the faintest hint of cologne following him—something dark, woodsy, threaded with smoke.

When he leaned a little nearer, his eyes swept over your face with a curiosity that felt… deliberate.

Measured.“You’re new,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Yes,” you replied. “Only arrived today.”

“Well,” he murmured, “that means you haven’t yet learned which hallways to avoid after dusk.”

A playful glint entered his eyes. “Like this one.”

Your breath caught. “Should I be worried?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering you. Then, softly: “Only if you’re easily frightened.”

You weren’t sure whether that was a warning or a provocation.

He chuckled when he saw your reaction, a low, rich sound that hummed pleasantly in the quiet corridor. He looked—just for that moment—nothing like the rumors. Nothing like the cold, storm-eyed son of two geniuses.

He looked almost gentle. Almost boyish.

“You don’t seem scared,” he added. “That’s good.”

“I’m not,” you said, surprising even yourself.

He smiled again, slower this time, and something warm flickered between the two of you—unexpected, uninvited, but undeniably real. He straightened, his posture relaxed, one hand sliding into his pocket as though settling in to prolong this strange, accidental meeting.

“So,” he asked lightly, “what brings you to our charming maze of a home? Don’t tell me you’re here for the wine—my mother guards the cellar like a dragon.”

You smiled back without thinking. “No, nothing like that. I’m here to—”The moment the words left your mouth, his expression began to shift, but you didn’t notice until it was too late.“—document your parents’ work. Renoir invited me for a month-long stay. I’m a journalist.”

Silence.

It was immediate.

Electric.

His smile didn’t fade. It disappeared. Completely.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by something you couldn’t read—ice, steel, shadow. He pulled back—not physically, but in the way a door slams shut behind someone walking away.

The air cooled. “Ah,” he said quietly. No humor. No softness.

Just recognition dripping with disdain. “One of those.”

His tone wasn’t raised, but the disappointment in it struck harder than if he had shouted. As though he had allowed himself—for a fleeting, careless moment—to enjoy your company, and now regretted it bitterly.

You straightened, instinct tightening your spine. “I’m not sure what that means,” you said, careful, controlled.

He pushed off the wall with the lazy grace of someone who did not need to hurry for anyone. “Of course you do.” You opened your mouth to retort, but he continued, voice smooth as glass and twice as cold. “You’re here to poke at their genius with your little pen, write about their ‘process,’ and pretend you understand the world they live in.”

You bristled. “That’s not what I—”

“Oh?” His brows lifted, mocking curiosity sharpening his features. “Then what are you doing here? Enlighten me.”

There was a challenge in his eyes now, pale and cutting, and the warmth you’d briefly seen was gone, buried under something older and bitter. You sensed this was not about you—not entirely. You had stepped on an old wound without knowing it.

You held your ground.

“I’m here because their work deserves to be preserved. Because history deserves more than rumors and critiques.”

He let out a soft breath that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing humorous in it.

“History,” he repeated. “Yes. It always gets everything so perfectly wrong.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It doesn’t have to.”

He took a step closer—not enough to frighten, but enough that you felt the deliberate press of his presence. Enough that the air between you tightened, heated, even as his expression remained glacial.

“And you,” he murmured, voice dropping, “think you’re the one who’ll get it right?”

His nearness made your pulse stumble.

You refused to look away.

“I intend to,” you replied. “And if that bothers you, that sounds like your problem, not mine.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but the shadow of one, dark and dangerous.

“Bold,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

“It’s called doing my job.”

“No,” he corrected softly, eyes tracing your face with an intensity that made your breath hitch despite your irritation. “It’s called arrogance.”

You exhaled sharply. “And judging someone you just met is called what, exactly?”

For a moment—just a brief, crackling instant—you saw it again: the warmth behind the frost, a glimmer of amusement trying to break through, fighting with irritation.

Then he stepped back, the wall sliding down between you once more.

“You’re in the wrong room,” he said curtly, all the softness of earlier carved away. “Yours is two doors down.”

You stiffened. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t offer to show you the way. He simply watched you pass, gaze following you with something unreadable—annoyance, curiosity, or perhaps that same fleeting warmth he was trying very hard to suffocate.

Just as you reached the correct door, he spoke again, his voice lower, almost begrudging:

“Next time,” he murmured, “try not to get lost.”

You didn’t turn back. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for staff,” you shot over your shoulder, “try not lurking in dark hallways.”

A beat of silence. Then—very soft, very reluctant— “…Touché.”

You slipped into your room, heart unsteady, cheeks warm, breath tight. The door clicked shut behind you.And despite the tension, the irritation, the sharp edges—you couldn’t deny the truth.

Your first night in the Dessendre Manor had become far more interesting than you expected.

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