Her name was Vivienne Black.
And she didn't belong in 1887.
Not because of time.
Because of the way she carried herself—like she already knew how the story ended and was daring the world to prove her wrong. She had the kind of gaze that made men uncomfortable and women curious.
And lately, she was getting too close.
Julian read her latest article aloud while Carmen dressed.
"'These killings are not the work of chaos,'" he read, "'They are ritualized, specific, performed with surgical precision and dramatic flair. This is not madness. This is performance. And it has an audience.'"
Carmen smiled at her reflection. "She's not wrong."
Julian crumpled the paper. "She's dangerous."
"She's paying attention," Carmen said, fixing her sleeve. "More than most."
That night, she found her.
Vivienne had a rhythm—late dinners, long walks, too much absinthe, and a tendency to stare too long at things no one else noticed. Carmen waited until the alley swallowed her footsteps and followed.
"Lovely night," she said, stepping into the soft gaslight.
Vivienne turned, blinking. She wasn't afraid. Just curious.
Carmen gave her a soft smile. "Relax. I'm not here to rob you."
"No," Vivienne said. "But you are… something."
"You've written about me," Carmen said.
There was a pause. A beat where truth hovered between them.
"Should I be afraid?" Vivienne asked.
Carmen stepped closer. "No. But maybe you should be careful."
The next night, they met again—on purpose this time.
They talked over wine in a dimly lit tavern tucked behind a bookstore. The candle between them flickered like it knew something they didn't.
Vivienne leaned in when she listened, her fingers brushing her glass. Carmen watched her mouth more than her words. Every question was deliberate, but none of it felt like an interrogation.
Carmen found herself answering.
Not everything.
But enough.
By the end of the night, Vivienne's hand found Carmen's across the table, and stayed there.
"You're not like anyone I've met," she whispered.
Carmen's thumb traced her knuckles. "You wouldn't have had to look so hard if you were."
Later, when Carmen leaned in and kissed her—slow, steady—Vivienne didn't pull away. She let it happen like she'd been waiting for it. There was nothing showy about it. No smoke or mirrors.
Just heat. Contact. Something real.
Vivienne didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed with Carmen's scent still clinging to her wrist, her body aching with questions she didn't want answered.
She didn't know if she was falling into something dangerous…
Or if she already had.
Carmen returned to the loft just before sunrise.
Julian was reading on the couch, hair a mess, tea gone cold beside him.
He looked at her once—at the wrinkled collar, the smear of lipstick just below her ear, the faint blush that hadn't faded from her cheeks.
He didn't ask.
She didn't explain.
But the corner of his mouth twitched with something like amusement.
Because he knew Carmen.
She didn't fall in love.
She made people fall into her.
And once they were in—
they didn't crawl back out.