Vincent's townhouse swallowed Katherine whole. The space was so unlike Madame Dupont's brothel—no glittering chandeliers or grand displays to impress wealthy clients, no suffocating perfume or orchestrated charm. This place was warm, quiet, and undeniably real.
Soft candlelight flickered against dark wood. The scent of old books mingled with the faint aroma of brandy. A fire crackled gently, casting golden shadows across the room. Heavy drapes hung over the windows, keeping the outside world at bay. The furniture was dark and sturdy, well-worn but elegant, chosen for comfort rather than ostentation. It was a home, not a stage.
Katherine stood frozen just inside the doorway, unsure how to breathe in this strange calm. It wasn't the practiced warmth of a parlor designed to lure men. It was genuine. It was the kind of home that people lived in, rather than the kind where people like her existed only to be used. A bitter thought lodged in her throat—she didn't belong here.
Vincent closed the door behind them and quietly shrugged off his coat. His movements were measured, but she noticed the lingering tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles remained raw and scraped. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.
"You're safe," he said gently, breaking the stillness.
Safe.
The word didn't feel real. Katherine had long forgotten what safety was. Safety had always been an illusion, a fleeting thing, easily shattered at the first sign of danger.
Vincent stepped closer, voice quiet but steady. "Are you cold?"
She shook her head, though there was an icy pit lodged deep inside her. The chill wasn't one that could be chased away by firelight or warm hands. It was the kind that settled in the bones, built over years of stolen choices and quiet fears.
Without pressing further, he crossed the room and poured a glass of brandy. He returned, holding it out to her without a word.
She hesitated but took it. The liquid burned as it slid down her throat, but it chased away some of the numbness. It reminded her she was still here, still breathing, even when everything inside her felt suspended between past and present.
Vincent's eyes never left her. There was no expectation in his gaze, no hunger. Just patience.
"You don't have to be afraid," he said.
Katherine let out a short, breathless laugh. "You think I'm afraid?"
"I think you're trying very hard not to be."
Their gazes met. His were too perceptive, too patient, and that frightened her more than any threat. He wasn't looking at her the way men usually did—with hunger, with entitlement. He was studying her, learning her, and she didn't know if she could bear that kind of attention.
"Madame Dupont won't let this go," she whispered. "You humiliated her. You cost her a client. You cost her money. She doesn't forgive."
Vincent's jaw tightened, his fingers curling at his sides. "Let her come. She'll have to get through me first."
"You don't know what you're saying." Katherine's voice trembled. "She knows how to destroy people."
"She won't destroy you."
"She might destroy you," Katherine snapped. "You think this is some noble cause? She doesn't play fair. She never has."
Vincent stepped closer, so close she could see the flicker of firelight in his eyes. He didn't waver.
"Then let her come."
It was reckless, infuriating—and somehow, it cracked her armor further. His certainty was maddening. She wanted to shake him, tell him he had no idea what kind of monster he was dealing with. But she also wanted to believe him.
Her shoulders slumped. "You don't understand the world I live in."
"Then teach me."
His words pierced through her, soft but unwavering. Vincent wasn't offering charity or pity. He wasn't treating her like something broken. He was offering choice—something Katherine hadn't had in years.
She swallowed hard, feeling something dangerously close to hope bloom in her chest. It was a fragile thing, and she had learned not to trust it.
"I should go," she said suddenly, stepping back. The thought of staying, of trusting, was overwhelming.
Vincent's expression darkened, but his voice remained calm. "Go where?"
She opened her mouth but no answer came. Where would she go? Back to Madame Dupont? Back to the brothel's cold, perfumed cage? There was no refuge beyond these walls. Not really.
Vincent's fingers gently brushed hers. "Stay," he whispered. "Just for tonight."
The walls inside Katherine crumbled piece by piece. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but something in his voice, in his touch, made her hesitate.
"Just tonight," she whispered back.
Vincent's relief was almost imperceptible, but she caught it—the quiet exhale, the softening in his gaze. He nodded, as though he understood how much it had cost her to say those words.
"I'll have a room prepared." He turned to leave, but Katherine instinctively reached out and caught his hand.
"Thank you," she said. The words were foreign on her tongue, too soft, too exposed.
Vincent's hand tightened around hers for the briefest moment before he nodded and disappeared down the hall.
Left alone, Katherine stood in the center of the room, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire. She should have been relieved. She should have felt safe. But safety was not something she had ever trusted, not truly. It was always a mirage, a brief lull before the storm. Her body knew that, even if her heart wished to believe otherwise.
She wrapped her arms around herself, staring into the flickering flames. The heat should have warmed her, should have chased away the cold clawing at the edges of her ribs, but it didn't. The warmth outside could do nothing to soothe the ache that lived within.
Her mind raced ahead, envisioning the inevitable consequences of this night. Madame Dupont would not take this insult lightly. She would come for her. For Vincent. And Katherine knew better than anyone that a woman like Madame Dupont never fought fair.
She wasn't afraid of the night anymore. It was what came after that sent shivers down her spine—the uncertainty, the consequences, the cruel hand of fate waiting to tear down whatever fragile peace she had found here. It was the weight of borrowed time, pressing down on her, reminding her that no matter how desperately she wanted to stay, the world had never been kind enough to let her.