You hate Sylvain.

Hate that jagged smile whenever he prances about on romantic escapades with at least a dozen women on his arm, hate the way he leans over you as if by some will of the goddess his cheap one-liners would work on you— you hate how vain he is.

“You vex me so often I have to sit and think sometimes,”

“You think of me?”

You want to knock his head in a thousand times over.