The days that followed blurred together, each one pulling Katherine deeper into Vincent LaFleur's world. He was a man of refinement, wealth, and influence—his presence in New Orleans seemed as much a force as the river that shaped the city. And for reasons she couldn't yet understand, he had taken a keen interest in her.
He took her to the opera, where the music soared and crashed like waves against the cliffs of her past. He led her through the manicured gardens of the Cabildo, the scent of jasmine thick in the air, as they spoke in hushed voices, their words laced with intrigue. They dined at the finest restaurants, where chandeliers cast flickering golden light over silk tablecloths and men in pressed coats spoke of politics and trade.
It was a world she had only ever glimpsed through the parted curtains of carriages that sped past her in the streets. And now, she was inside it, sitting beside a man whose gaze lingered on her in ways that made her skin warm and her pulse unsteady.
And yet, no matter how much fine wine touched her lips, no matter how exquisite the velvet of her gown, Katherine couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't belong.
The city shimmered around her, but in her heart, she was still a girl of the backstreets—a creature shaped by shadows, accustomed to hunger, and taught to survive at all costs.
That night, as Vincent's carriage took her home, she leaned against the window, watching the gas lamps flicker against the cobblestones. The brothel loomed in the distance, its familiar silhouette cutting against the moonlit sky. The sight of it made her stomach tighten.
She had been given a brief taste of something else—something close to freedom—but reality was waiting for her behind those doors.
Vincent sat beside her, his expression unreadable. "You're quiet," he observed.
Katherine hesitated, her fingers brushing absently over the silver necklace around her throat. The cool metal felt heavy against her skin, a tether to the past she could never escape.
"This city," she murmured, "it makes me feel like I'm two different people. The girl I was before, and the woman I am now. And I don't know which of them is real."
Vincent studied her in silence. She expected him to offer some smooth reassurance, but instead, he asked, "Who was the girl before?"
Katherine's fingers tightened around the necklace.
She had been small once—smaller than she should have been, always hungry, always cold. The apartment where she had lived with her mother was cramped, the walls so thin she could hear the neighbors fighting on one side and crying babies on the other. The air was always thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and damp wood, the kind of smell that never truly left your clothes.
Her father had been a man who cast long shadows, his presence filling a room before his voice did. She could remember the way his fingers curled around a bottle, the way they curled around her mother's wrist even tighter.
There had been nights when her mother would press a trembling finger to her lips, urging her into silence as the floorboards creaked with his footsteps. Nights when bruises bloomed on delicate skin like ink spilled across a page.
She could still remember the night she stopped fearing him.
She had been ten, maybe eleven, when he struck her mother hard enough to send her crumpling against the kitchen table. The sound had been sharp—like the snap of a branch breaking in the wind.
And something inside Katherine had snapped with it.
She had lunged, small fists pounding uselessly against his chest, against his arms, against anything she could reach. He had laughed, shoving her aside like she was no more than an insect.
That night, she learned two things: love was not enough to keep someone safe, and monsters did not live under the bed—they lived among them, wore familiar faces, and sometimes, they even called themselves family.
She had never forgiven him for what he took from them. And she had never forgiven herself for not being strong enough to stop him.
When he died, he left nothing.
He had nothing to begin with.
So nothing was left behind, nothing.
Finally, a relief she felt.
Katherine's mother had tried to hold them together after that. She worked her fingers raw, sewing late into the night, promising that things would get better.
They never did.
Illness came for her quickly, stealing her breath, her strength, and in the end, her life.
Katherine had buried her mother alone. She had stood by the grave as the rain seeped through the holes in her shoes, her fingers curled so tightly around the silver necklace that it left an imprint in her palm.
She had walked into Madame Dupont's brothel that same night.
And she had never looked back.
"Katherine?"
Vincent's voice pulled her back to the present.
She forced a small, hollow smile. "She was just a girl," she said softly. "And she didn't last very long."
Vincent's eyes flickered with something unreadable.
She didn't want his pity. She didn't want kind words.
She wanted distraction.
"What about you, Monsieur LaFleur?" she asked, tilting her head. "What brings a man like you to New Orleans? You seem like a man with a purpose."
For the first time that evening, Vincent's mask slipped—just slightly.
His gaze drifted toward the river, watching the dark currents move like restless spirits. "I'm here on business," he said simply. "I have interests in the city that require my attention."
Katherine narrowed her eyes. "What kind of business?"
He turned back to her with a small, enigmatic smile. "The kind that keeps me up at night."
It was a non-answer, and she knew it. But it was enough to set her mind spinning with possibilities.
She had spent years learning how to read men—how to see the small tells in their expressions, the moments when their guard slipped just enough to reveal the truth beneath.
Vincent was practiced. Careful.
But beneath his carefully measured words, there was something else. Something dangerous.
The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken things.
Then, finally, he asked, "Why did you stay?"
Katherine blinked. "What?"
"When your father...and your mother…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You could have left the city. Started over somewhere else. Why did you stay?"
Katherine exhaled slowly. "Because there was nowhere else to go."
The answer tasted like rust on her tongue.
She had spent so long surviving that she had never stopped to wonder if there was more.
Vincent's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette case. He tapped one free and lit it, the flame flickering between them.
Katherine watched the way the smoke curled around his fingers, disappearing into the night air.
"What do you want, Katherine?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
She hesitated.
No one had ever asked her that before.
For years, her wants had never mattered.
But as she looked at him, at the glint of firelight in his dark blue eyes, at the way the city hummed around them like a living thing, she felt something stir inside her—something small, something fragile.
Hope.
"I don't know," she admitted.
Vincent nodded as if he understood.
The carriage slowed to a stop.
The brothel loomed before her, its windows glowing like watchful eyes.
Vincent exhaled smoke, flicking the cigarette away. "Maybe one day, you'll figure it out."
Katherine swallowed the lump in her throat and stepped out into the night.
And as the door shut behind her, she realized she had already begun to wonder—
What if there was another way?