The parlor was alive with the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the faint strains of piano music drifting through the heavy air. The scent of perfume and cigar smoke curled together, thick and cloying, clinging to every surface.
The men in the room were familiar—some regular patrons, some newcomers with greedy eyes and eager hands. She had long learned how to navigate their attention, to move like silk through their grasp without giving too much of herself away.
And then Madame Dupont entered.
She was poised, her emerald gown catching the candlelight as she strode through the parlor with quiet authority. Her gaze swept across the room. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.
"Monsieur" Madame Dupont purred, stepping closer to Bisset. "Follow me, she awaits you"
Her room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of a single oil lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of inevitability.
Katherine moved on instinct, her hands going through the motions of preparation—brushing out her hair, smoothing the fabric of her gown, dabbing the faintest trace of perfume at her wrists.
She caught her own reflection in the vanity mirror.
Her face was carefully composed, but her eyes betrayed her.
There was no excitement. No anticipation.
Katherine kept her chin high, her steps steady. She had done this before.
She knew how to pretend.
A knock at the door.
Katherine exhaled slowly. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and Madame Dupont stepped inside first, followed by a tall, Bisset. His eyes were sharp, assessing, his mouth curved into a smirk that made Katherine's skin prickle.
"Katherine, ma chère," Madame Dupont said smoothly. "Make him happy" with the wittiest most annoying smirk on her face.
The man—Bisset—let his gaze drag over her, slow and possessive.
Katherine's stomach turned, but she forced a polite smile. "How do I please you, monsieur?"
Madame Dupont's laughter remained fixed as she turned to leave, her voice firm. "Be sure to entertain him well."
The door clicked shut behind her.
And then they were alone.
Bisset wasted no time.
The moment the door closed, he stepped closer, the space between them vanishing too quickly. His scent was overpowering—cologne and whiskey, thick on his breath.
Katherine suppressed the instinct to step back.
"I have heard much about you, mademoiselle," Bisset murmured, his fingers brushing over the lace of her sleeve. "They say you are the finest jewel in Madame Dupont's collection. Perhaps today I'll see how shinny it can get"
Katherine forced a small, empty smile. "Men say many things, monsieur."
He chuckled. "That they do."
He walked up close, his hand moved, tracing up her arm, over her shoulder, fingers slipping beneath the delicate strap of her gown.
Katherine inhaled sharply. "Would you care for some wine?" she asked, her voice smooth despite the unease curling in her stomach.
But Bisset wasn't interested in wine.
He leaned in, his breath hot against her skin. "No need for that."
His fingers curled around her upper arm, his grip tightening just enough to send a warning through her body.
Katherine kept her expression neutral, though her pulse had begun to race.
She had been here before.
She knew what came next.
Bisset's fingers moved again, lower this time, trailing down her back, along the curve of her waist. His other hand lifted, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, slipping beneath the fabric of her gown.
And then—
The loose strap of her gown slipped from her shoulder.
The silk fell away, exposing the pale curve of her breast to the candlelight.
Bisset let out a low hum of appreciation, his hand moving to caress the newly bared skin, his fingers rough against the delicate flesh.
Katherine's breath hitched.
His other hand slid lower, gripping her thigh, pushing the fabric of her gown higher as he pressed against her.
A sickening familiarity settled in her bones.
She had spent years enduring the touch of men like him.
She had perfected the art of detachment, of slipping into a place inside her mind where none of it could touch her.
But tonight—
Tonight, something inside her rebelled.
She stiffened beneath his hands, the fire in her blood burning too hot.
Bisset noticed.
His grip tightened, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy this, ma belle."
Katherine's stomach twisted.
She could endure. She always endured.
But this time, she didn't want to.
This time, she wanted to fight.
The door burst open.
A gasp tore from Katherine's throat as Bisset was yanked backward, his grip ripped from her skin.
Vincent.
His eyes were dark with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it could have been carved from stone.
Before Bisset could react, Vincent's fist connected with his jaw. The crack of bone against bone echoed through the room.
Bisset stumbled, cursing, his hand flying to his face. "What the hell—"
Vincent didn't give him time to recover.
He grabbed Bisset by the collar, shoving him against the wall with enough force to make the wooden panels rattle. "How dare you put your hands on her?" Vincent's voice was deadly quiet.
Bisset laughed, though there was blood in his teeth. "Ah. So that's it." He glanced toward Katherine, his smirk returning despite the split in his lip. "The lawyer has claimed his prize. So the rumors are true."
Vincent's grip tightened, his knuckles going white.
"Get out," he growled.
Bisset sneered. "She belongs to the house, LaFleur. Not to you."
Vincent's fist flew again, slamming into Bisset's gut this time. The man crumpled, gasping for breath.
His face twisted in a snarl. But Vincent was too quick, too strong. He punched the man in the face, sending him crashing to the floor
Katherine watched in horror as Vincent continued to pummel the man, his fists flying as he shouted curses and insults. She tried to cover herself, to hide her torn and tattered dress.
"I said, get out." Vincent said.
Bisset staggered to his feet, straightening his jacket with a pained groan. He shot Katherine a final glance, his gaze dark with promise. "Until next time, mademoiselle."
Vincent moved to strike him again, but Bisset had already slipped past the door, almost bumping into Madame Dupont.
Madame Dupont walked into the room, her face pale with shock. "What's going on here?" she shouted.
As Vincent looked around, his rage slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a growing sense of unease. He noticed the faces peering through the doorway, the whispers and murmurs of the crowd.
"It's Monsieur Vincent Lafleur, the famous lawyer," someone whispered. "What is going on? And what's with the courtesan?"
Vincent turned to Katherine.
"Katherine," he breathed, stepping toward her.
But she couldn't move.
She stood there, her gown slipping down her arm, her skin still burning where Bisset had touched her.
Vincent reached for her, his hands gentle as he lifted the fallen fabric back over her shoulder. His fingers barely brushed her skin, but the tenderness in the gesture made something inside her fracture.
Tears burned behind her eyes.
She had spent years living in fear, and maybe understanding it, so she thought.
But tonight, her fear had doubled.