Vivienne looked at André's blank expression. His face had suddenly lost all warmth. His eyes were cold, his lips pressed flat. It was like she had stepped into a room full of light and accidentally snuffed out the only candle.
Her mind screamed. Why is he like that? Did I say something wrong? Was it the father question? God, why does this man act like every word is a trap? One moment he's kissing me like a lover, the next he looks like a statue about to murder me. Pick one, you bastard.
André let out a low chuckle, though his voice carried a weight behind it.
"My father never liked being painted," he said flatly. "I don't think I have any painting of him."
Vivienne opened her mouth, then shut it again. She wanted to say something cruel, something sharp, but before she could, André's eyes softened a little and he asked, "What about you? What about your parents?"
