Vincent stormed through the streets, his pulse hammering with a fury he couldn't contain. The moment he'd realized Katherine was gone, an icy dread had settled in his gut. And when he found out where she'd gone—back to the brothel, back to her, Madame Dupont—that dread had curdled into something darker, something volatile, something that burned through his veins like poison.
The city around him was alive, oblivious to the storm raging within him. Gas lamps flickered along the narrow streets, their golden glow barely cutting through the thick evening mist. The clatter of carriage wheels against cobblestones echoed in the distance, mingling with the raucous laughter of drunken men spilling from taverns. Somewhere nearby, a street performer played a sorrowful tune on a fiddle, the notes hanging in the air like ghosts. The scent of damp earth, old wood, and smoke curled around him, but none of it mattered. His thoughts were singular—Katherine.
His fists clenched as he cut through the city, his mind a tempest of rage and disbelief. Why? Why would she go back there, to the very place she was trying to escape? He had given her sanctuary, protection, a way out. And yet, she had returned to the woman who had bound her in gilded chains. The thought clawed at him, a sickening mix of betrayal and fear. Had she chosen Madame Dupont? Had she decided that the life he offered wasn't worth the risk?
By the time he reached the brothel, his heart was a war drum in his chest. The establishment loomed before him, its once-grand facade marred by time and sin. Velvet drapes framed the windows, the warm glow of candlelight spilling onto the street, promising pleasure and secrecy to those who entered. From within, the muffled sounds of revelry—low murmurs, soft moans, and the occasional burst of laughter—seeped through the walls like a living thing. The doorman flinched at the sight of him, stepping back as though he could sense the storm that had settled over Vincent like an omen. Vincent shoved past without slowing, his every step rigid with fury, his breath measured but sharp.
He ascended the stairs two at a time, each footfall reverberating like a judge's gavel. The hallway was familiar, too familiar, the scent of perfume and candle smoke mingling in a way that made his stomach churn. The laughter of men and the soft sighs of women echoed from the other rooms, reminders of the life Katherine had fought to leave behind. His fingers curled around the doorknob, and with a single, unrelenting motion, he threw the door open.
Inside, Katherine stood frozen, her silhouette framed against the flickering light of the room's ornate chandelier. Her wide, glassy eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her breath unsteady. Across from her, perched in her velvet chair like a spider at the center of its web, sat Madame Dupont. A slow, knowing smile curled her lips as she observed the scene unfolding before her.
"Maître LaFleur," she greeted smoothly, amusement laced in every syllable. "Such an entrance. Do you always announce yourself with such… enthusiasm?"
Vincent barely acknowledged her. His focus remained on Katherine, on the way her arms were wrapped around herself as if warding off the weight of the moment.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice cracked—not just with anger, but with something rawer, something closer to fear.
Katherine's lips parted, but no words came. Her gaze flickered toward Madame Dupont—so brief, so fleeting, yet it sent rage tearing through him like wildfire.
"What did she tell you?" Vincent demanded, his voice low, edged with something dangerous.
Madame Dupont's laughter was soft, indulgent. "Only the truth, Maître. That Katherine and I have history."
Vincent's jaw clenched. "History? You mean the years you spent owning her?"
Katherine flinched. Madame Dupont remained composed, though her eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Such harsh words," she murmured, standing with the grace of a woman who knew she controlled the board. "Is that how you see it, chérie?" Her gaze shifted to Katherine, feigning softness. "Was I truly your captor?"
Tears slipped down Katherine's cheeks—not from fear, but from something more insidious. Confusion.
She had survived too much to weep easily, yet tonight was different. Tonight, the tears carried the weight of loyalty and love, of war raging inside her. Madame Dupont had taken her in when she had nothing. She had given her shelter, a name, a purpose. And yet, Vincent offered her something that had once felt unattainable—love, tenderness, the possibility of something beyond survival.
Madame Dupont's eyes gleamed as she stepped closer. "He wouldn't have saved you then," she whispered, her voice a serpent's hiss. "You were nothing. I gave you everything. And you would throw that away for him?"
Katherine trembled. The words burrowed deep, stirring old wounds. Memories of cold nights spent alone, of hunger gnawing at her ribs, of the desperation that had driven her into Madame Dupont's clutches. And yet, Vincent's warmth, his unwavering belief that she deserved more, pulled her in the opposite direction.
Vincent took a sharp step forward, his presence swallowing the room. "And yet, it was everything you gave her that kept her caged." His voice was steel, unyielding. He turned his gaze to Katherine, his expression unwavering. "By the law, Katherine is a free woman. Whatever contract or debt you claim is void unless upheld by court or signed consent. You own nothing—not her, not her life."
Madame Dupont stiffened. For the first time, her mask cracked. "Ma chérie, is that true?", she asked.
Vincent seized Katherine's trembling hand, his grip firm but not forceful. "We're leaving." His voice left no room for argument.
Katherine's fingers shook in his, but she didn't pull away.
Madame Dupont's expression twisted into something venomous. "Take her, then," she spat, her voice losing its practiced charm. "But you'll regret it."
Vincent didn't dignify her with a response. He turned, leading Katherine from the room, his grip steady, his pace unrelenting.
As they stepped into the cold night air, Vincent exhaled sharply, his pulse still thrumming with the aftermath of battle. The street was quieter now, the earlier revelry reduced to distant echoes. A stray cat darted between barrels, and the wind carried the scent of rain. But as much as he wanted to believe the war was over, he knew better.
Something had shifted. He had seen it in Katherine's eyes—the ghost of doubt, lingering just beneath the surface, waiting to bloom.
And when it did, it could destroy them both.