The murmur of conversation filled the parlor, blending with the soft clink of crystal and the slow, smoky melody of a violin drifting through the brothel's gilded halls. Perfume and candle wax thickened the air, mingling with the deep musk of expensive cigars. Men lounged in velvet chairs, half-lidded eyes appraising the women who draped themselves in silken allure, their laughter light and practiced.
Katherine moved through it all like a whisper of cool air, her presence both effortless and commanding. She had learned long ago how to glide through a room unseen until she wished to be noticed. But tonight, there was no hiding from the gaze that followed her.
Monsieur Vincent LaFleur.
His presence was an oddity—an interruption in the carefully woven dance of desire and pretense. He sat alone, unlike the other men who sought companionship. A private audience had been arranged, yet he made no move to beckon her. He simply watched.
And, as was expected, Katherine approached.
The men who paid for private audiences always had expectations. Some wanted conversation before pleasure, while others wasted no time. But never had one simply sat and waited, offering no command, no invitation.
She lowered herself gracefully onto the chaise opposite him, the golden lamplight playing against the soft sheen of her skin.
"Monsieur LaFleur," she murmured, reaching for the wine decanter resting between them. "Shall I pour you a drink?"
A small smile flickered at the corner of his lips, though his expression remained unreadable.
"No." His voice was smooth, controlled.
Katherine hesitated, the crystal decanter cool beneath her fingers. The way he studied her sent a quiet unease curling through her stomach—not the kind that warned of danger, but something else. Something unfamiliar.
"Then, shall we begin?" she asked, setting the decanter aside. Her tone was practiced, effortless.
Monsieur LaFleur leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. He was dressed in a tailored black coat, silver cufflinks gleaming in the dim candlelight. Dark hair framed a face sculpted in sharp angles, but it was his eyes—piercing and unwavering—that unsettled her most.
"I did not come for that."
Katherine stilled. A private audience, yet no intent for pleasure? The revelation was not only unusual but perplexing. She had known men to play cruel games, to string women along only to discard them with bored amusement. But there was no malice in his gaze. Only something deeper, something calculating.
"I see." She folded her hands in her lap, masking her uncertainty with a small, knowing smile. "Then why request an audience?"
Monsieur LaFleur studied her for a long moment before speaking.
"The city speaks of you, Mademoiselle Katherine."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed her features.
"They say you are unlike the others."
Katherine held his gaze, her expression carefully composed.
"And what do you think, Monsieur?"
He tilted his head slightly, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face.
"I think the city does not do you justice."
A slow exhale left her lips, though she did not let her control waver. She had heard all manner of flattery before, had learned to let such words pass over her like autumn wind through dry leaves.
Yet something about the way he said it—measured, assured—unsettled her.
"I am hardly as fascinating as rumors would suggest," she said smoothly.
"I disagree."
His gaze did not waver, did not shift away in flirtation or feigned interest. He was not like the others.
Katherine's fingers curled slightly in the folds of her gown. "And is that why you are here?" she asked, voice softer now.
Monsieur LaFleur leaned back against the chair, his movements slow, deliberate.
"I came to see for myself if the rumors were true."
Katherine's breath caught for the briefest of moments.
He had heard of her.
She had always known that whispers carried through the streets of New Orleans, that her name—her beauty—was spoken of in places she would never see. Some men came for the novelty of it, to claim they had touched the woman who had captured the city's curiosity. Others came to own her, to bend her beneath them and stake their claim in flesh.
But this was different.
"You have seen me now, Monsieur," she said, forcing lightness into her tone. "And? Was it worth it?"
His lips parted slightly, not quite a smile, but something close.
"Yes."
A strange, quiet tension settled between them.
Katherine looked away, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She had not expected him to be so direct, nor had she expected his interest to feel so… weighty.
She had long learned how to play the game, how to give men the illusion of intimacy without ever truly letting them past the walls she had built. But Vincent LaFleur was not playing.
He was simply watching.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"Tell me, Mademoiselle Katherine, do you enjoy the opera?"
The question was so unexpected that she almost laughed.
"The opera?" she repeated, arching a delicate brow.
He nodded. "I have a box at the theater. I would like for you to join me for a performance."
Katherine hesitated. This was not how private audiences ended. There was always an unspoken agreement, a conclusion to the transaction.
And yet…
The thought of the theater—of music that was not played to entice men into bed but simply to be heard—sent a quiet ache through her chest.
"I have never been," she admitted. "But I have heard the music is beautiful."
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. "Then I shall remedy that."
He reached for his untouched glass of wine, swirling the dark liquid absently.
"And perhaps, Mademoiselle," he continued, his voice dipping lower, "we can discuss the details further… over dinner?"
Something warm curled in her stomach, unbidden.
A dangerous warmth.
She was playing with fire.
But as she met his gaze, she knew that fire had already been lit.
"I'd like that," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
For the first time in a long while, she did not feel like a courtesan entertaining a man's whim.
For the first time, she felt like Katherine, atleast.
And as Vincent LaFleur held her gaze, she had the distinct, unsettling feeling that perhaps he saw her—not the woman the city whispered about, not the beauty that men sought to own.
But her.
And that frightened her more than anything else.