New Orleans, 1985.
The night air clung to Katherine's skin like a damp shroud, thick with the scent of blooming magnolias, tobacco smoke, and the ever-present murmur of the Mississippi River. A warm breeze slithered through the open window, teasing the loose strands of her golden hair, carrying with it the sounds of the Quarter—the drunken laughter spilling from taverns, the rhythmic clip-clop of horses over cobblestone, the distant trill of a violin playing some forgotten waltz. The city was a living, breathing entity, pulsating with desire, secrets, and sins hidden behind silk curtains and whispered promises.
From her vantage point, she could see the city alive with revelry. Carriages rolled past, their wheels rattling against the uneven stones, the glow of gas lamps casting shifting shadows that danced like specters across the damp streets. The French Quarter never truly slept, and neither did the women who lived beneath Madame Dupont's gilded roof. For them, the night was a master that demanded service, offering neither respite nor freedom.
Her fingers drummed against the wooden sill, the rhythm barely audible beneath the muffled symphony of voices below. The night was like any other—men had come and gone, each leaving behind the scent of cologne and the weight of expectation. Some whispered sweet nothings against her skin, others offered hollow promises of escape. She had long since learned how to smile without feeling, to let them touch her without ever truly being touched. She had become an illusion—an untouchable fantasy wrapped in satin and lace, molded into something men could crave but never truly own.
But tonight felt different. A tension coiled in her chest, a whisper of something she could not name. It was not fear, nor was it hope. It was something far more dangerous—a lingering anticipation that unsettled her.
She turned from the window, her gaze landing on the small music box resting atop the dresser. The delicate ballerina spun in slow, measured circles, twirling to the melody of a song she barely remembered. Once, it had brought her comfort. Now, it was merely another relic of a life she had never chosen. A reminder that innocence had long since slipped through her fingers, vanishing like a dream upon waking.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Katherine?"
The voice was familiar—Isabelle. Another girl in Madame Dupont's house.
"Enter," Katherine called, her voice husky from disuse.
The door creaked open, revealing Isabelle's slender frame. Her dark curls were pinned neatly atop her head, her corset laced so tightly it left little room for breath. She dipped into a small curtsy, though there was little need for such formalities between them.
"Madame requests your presence in the parlor."
Katherine lifted a brow. "At this hour?"
Isabelle hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. "It's important."
Katherine studied her friend's face, searching for some unspoken warning in her dark eyes, but Isabelle said nothing more.
With a quiet sigh, Katherine turned toward the mirror, smoothing the loose strands of her hair before adjusting the delicate lace sleeves of her gown. Whatever Madame wanted, it would not be a request.
Descending the grand staircase, the scents of clove-spiced cigars and brandy grew thicker, mingling with perfume and candle wax. The parlor was alive with movement—men lounged on velvet chairs, glasses of amber liquid swirling in their hands, while the women in Madame Dupont's employ draped themselves over their arms, offering flirtatious smiles and whispered promises.
At the center of it all, Madame Dupont sat with effortless poise, her emerald gown pooling around her like liquid silk. Her auburn hair was styled into an intricate updo, accentuating the sharpness of her features. She was a woman who commanded attention, and when she spoke, people listened.
As Katherine entered, all eyes turned toward her.
"Gentlemen," Madame Dupont purred, her voice smooth as honey. "Allow me to introduce you to our most exquisite, as you all know—Katherine."
A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered men. Their gazes swept over her, measuring, appraising. She had long grown accustomed to such scrutiny, yet it never ceased to make her skin crawl.
But one man stood apart.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black coat with silver cufflinks that gleamed in the candlelight. Dark hair framed a face both striking and unreadable, his piercing blue eyes studying her with quiet intensity. Unlike the others, he did not leer. He did not drink her in with open hunger.
And that, perhaps, was what unsettled her most.
"Katherine," Madame Dupont continued, her lips curving into a knowing smile, "Monsieur Vincent LaFleur has requested a private audience with you."
Katherine's breath caught.
She had been here long enough to know what that meant. Private audiences were rarely private, nor were they ever truly optional. Yet as she met Vincent's gaze, something flickered in his expression—something she could not name.
Madame Dupont rose gracefully. "I will leave you to get acquainted."
The others dispersed, their interest shifting elsewhere, leaving Katherine alone with the enigmatic Monsieur LaFleur.
"Please, Mademoiselle," he said smoothly, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Join me for a glass of wine."
His voice was rich, cultured, yet there was something beneath the polished veneer—a shadow, a quiet danger lurking just beneath the surface.
Katherine hesitated. Then, with careful grace, she lowered herself onto the seat across from him, smoothing her skirts as she accepted the glass he poured.
Vincent did not watch her as the other men had. He did not reach for her, nor did he attempt to close the space between them. Instead, he studied her, his fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass.
"You are different from the others," he mused at last.
Katherine arched a delicate brow. "Is that so?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Yes."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.
Katherine took a slow sip of wine, the dark liquid warming her throat. "And you, Monsieur LaFleur? Are you different from the others as well?"
His expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes—something sharp, something dangerous.
"Perhaps."
She should not have cared. She had spent years learning how to distance herself from the men who sought her out, to treat them as nothing more than fleeting shadows passing through her life.
And yet, as she sat across from Vincent LaFleur, she found herself wanting to know what lay beneath the mask he wore so well.