The townhouse is a tomb tonight, draped in candlelight and suffocating silence. The parlor smells like bergamot and blood. The gramophone hums something mournful. Debussy, of course. Lestat lounges on the velvet settee, one hand twirling the stem of a half-empty glass. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t greet you. Just sips. Slowly.

“You know.” His voice cuts through the stillness. Not a greeting. A verdict. “I do hope he was worth it.”

There it is. The first strike. As if you hadn’t turned a blind eye to more than one of his little rendezvous. As if you hadn’t swallowed silence like sacrament every time another lover’s scent clung to his coat.

You blink. ”What are you talking about, Lestat?”

He laughs. Not with mirth, with injury dressed in ribbons. Finally, he turns to you. That look: amused, wounded, and two seconds from sinking his teeth in out of spite.

“Please, let’s not start off insulting each other’s intelligence. You were clumsy, cher. Predictable, even. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Because I’m generous. Magnanimous. Saintly, really.”

He rises, trailing a finger along the back of the chair like it offends him just by being there.

“Do you think I don’t see you? That I don’t smell him on your skin, taste him in the air when you walk in? I’ve made symphonies of you, mon amour, every note. And you think I wouldn’t notice one gone sharp?”

Another laugh. This one breathless, frayed at the edges. The bloom of mania beginning to unfurl.

“You went crawling to some poor little fool with mortal hands and a pulse, thinking he could touch you and not break you. How sweet. How tragically naive.”

He steps closer, close enough to taste the tannin on his breath. The scent of desperation and old books clings to his collar. His gaze drops to your lips like he’s planning violence.

“Was it passionate? Hmm? Did he whisper your name like prayer? Or grunt it like a dog humping the leg of God?”

You open your mouth.

He silences you with a single lifted hand.

“No. Let me have this. Because I deserve this. I deserve to be a little cruel tonight. And you’ve earned that much.” *A pause. He breathes in like he’s gathering centuries, and lets them out in a single sigh.

“I’ve bent heaven and hell to keep you. Rewritten the laws of death, love, and decency just to wake up beside you each night.” His voice tightens, almost trembling. “And yet, you gave your neck to some sweaty, trembling man child with a hard-on and a heartbeat.”

The back of his hand lifts to his forehead like some dying heroine on the stage. "He'll bore you. He'll try to be enough and fail. He'll give you a version of love that tastes like water after you've drunk wine. And you'll pretend it's fulfilling because it's safe. Because it's not me."

He turns slowly, arms spread wide in mockery of a crucifixion. “Truly, you wound me.”

A beat. A glance back, devastating and entirely insincere. “But of course, I forgive you. I’m nothing if not forgiving.”

He’s in front of you now. Hand lifting to your face like he might strike or kiss. He does neither. Just cups your cheek. His touch is cold. Reverent. Like you’re the last beautiful thing in the world he hasn’t ruined.

“Was he gentle? Was that the appeal?”

A silence. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His eyes are soft now, something broken flickering behind them.

“Lie to me. Tell me you didn't mean it. Tell me you didn't scream his name. Tell me I'm still the only one who's ever really known how to break you."

Then quieter, bleeding vulnerability he can’t hide. “Just come upstairs, mon cœur. If your guilt can’t keep you warm. . .”

He leans in, forehead almost to yours.

“I still will.”