The days passed in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, pulling Katherine further into Vincent LaFleur's world.
It was a strange kind of entrapment—one without chains, without threats, without force. And yet, it unsettled her all the same.
She had been courted before, used and lied to, by men with smooth words and silk-lined pockets, but this was different. Vincent did not behave like a man accustomed to paying for pleasure. He did not touch her carelessly, nor did he whisper empty promises meant to dissolve with the morning light.
Instead, he listened.
And that terrified her more than anything.
When Madame Dupont informed her that Vincent LaFleur had once again requested her company, Katherine had been prepared for another quiet evening in the privacy of the brothel. Yet, to her surprise, his request was different this time—he wished to take her out.
Not to a private chamber. Not to some hidden alcove where men sought stolen pleasures.
But out.
A true outing.
Only special clients were granted such privileges, and even then, the request had to be approved. That he had managed to arrange it so effortlessly spoke volumes about his influence. Vincent LaFleur was not just any man. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.
The realization unsettled her.
The evening air was crisp, carrying the scent of magnolias and the distant hum of a city that never truly slept. Katherine stepped out of the carriage and into the glow of gaslit lanterns, her gaze sweeping over the grand establishment before her. Le Papillon d'Or. A place of refinement, where only the wealthy and the influential dined, where women were adorned in the finest silks, and men in tailored suits discussed politics and power over glasses of aged brandy.
She should not have been surprised that Vincent had chosen such a place.
His hand extended toward her, steady and sure. "Shall we?"
She hesitated for only a moment before placing her gloved fingers against his palm. His grip was firm, warm, but he did not seek to control—only to guide.
The maitre d' greeted them with the kind of reverence reserved for kings. "Monsieur LaFleur, welcome back. Your usual table?"
"Oui." Vincent's response was smooth, effortless, as though he had done this a thousand times before.
Katherine followed him through the lavish dining room, aware of the way eyes lingered on her. She was used to being watched, appraised, desired. But this was different. Here, she was not a courtesan draped in provocative silks meant to lure men into temptation. Tonight, she was something else—something she couldn't quite define.
They were seated in a private alcove, where the golden glow of the chandeliers softened the sharpness of Vincent's features. A waiter arrived with a bottle of wine, pouring them each a glass before retreating with practiced discretion.
Katherine studied the deep red liquid in her crystal goblet before lifting her gaze to Vincent. "You didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to."
She smirked. "Men don't usually go through this much trouble when they've already paid for my time."
Vincent's lips curved slightly. "Perhaps I'm not like most men."
"Perhaps not."
They dined in a slow, unhurried manner, the conversation weaving between light banter and something deeper. Vincent asked about her past—not with the invasive curiosity of a man seeking to own a piece of her, but with the quiet patience of someone who simply wanted to understand.
And that, more than anything, made her uneasy.
"You seem restless," he observed after a while.
Katherine glanced up from her plate, forcing a light smile. "Do I?"
His gaze was steady. "You do."
She reached for her wine, taking a slow sip before replying. "I suppose I'm not used to this."
"This?"
She gestured vaguely at the room, the fine table linens, the polished silverware. "Being treated as… a guest."
Vincent's expression darkened slightly, something unreadable flickering in his deep blue eyes. "And what are you used to?"
She tilted her head, studying him. "Men who don't ask that question."
A beat of silence passed.
Then Vincent set down his fork and leaned back, regarding her with quiet intensity. "And yet, you're here."
Katherine exhaled softly. "Yes. And yet, I'm here."
She wasn't sure what compelled her to stay. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the way his presence seemed to settle in the space between them like an inevitability.
Whatever it was, it both intrigued and unsettled her.
After dinner, he led her toward the gardens that stretched along the restaurant's outer terrace. The air was cooler now, carrying the faint scent of roses and damp earth. Soft lanterns lined the stone pathway, their glow casting shifting shadows against the cobblestones.
They walked in silence for a moment before Vincent finally spoke. "You don't have to be afraid of me."
Katherine let out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. "I'm not afraid of you, Vincent."
He tilted his head. "No?"
"No." She met his gaze. "I'm afraid of what you make me feel."
His expression remained unreadable, but something in his eyes darkened. "And what is that?"
Katherine swallowed. "Like I could believe you."
The words hung between them, thick with unspoken meaning.
Vincent turned toward her, his voice low. "Have I given you a reason not to?"
She hesitated. "No."
"Then why do you resist it?"
Katherine looked away. "Because men like you don't come into women's lives without wanting something."
Vincent was silent for a long moment.
Then, softly, he said, "Maybe I want to give, not take."
Katherine's breath hitched.
No one had ever told her that before. What exactly is he playing at.
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But the walls she had built around herself were not so easily broken.
She turned slightly, brushing her fingers along the petals of a white rose. "Tell me something, Vincent," she murmured. "Why haven't you touched me?"
Vincent exhaled slowly. "Because I don't want to take something you're not willing to give."
Katherine blinked. She had expected a different answer—expected him to deflect, to offer some charming quip that would change the subject.
But instead, he had given her honesty.
And it left her feeling entirely undone.
She turned to face him fully, searching his expression. "And if I was willing?"
His jaw tensed. "Are you?"
She wasn't sure.
The past had taught her that desire was a game, that intimacy was a transaction to be bartered and sold. But this—this was something different.
Vincent reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of her golden hair behind her ear. His touch was light, reverent. "You don't have to prove anything to me."
The words struck something deep inside her.
She stepped back. "I should go."
Vincent studied her, then nodded. "I'll take you back."
As they left, the weight of his words followed her, lingering long after she disappeared into the night.