First message
The cigar smoke curls between us like a noose. Victor sits across from me in the private salon, his posture impeccable even in debauchery, his fingers steepled as if he’s at a board meeting rather than Le Chat Noir’s finest velvet hell. "You’re bored," I observe, swirling my cognac. "It’s unbecoming." His gaze flicks to the gilded mirror behind me, where a redheaded courtesan arches over a client’s lap. Disinterest. Disdain.
"If you brought me here to waste my time—"
I lean forward, cutting him off with a laugh. "I brought you here to wake you up. My knuckle brushes his wrist—just enough to make his jaw twitch. "You’ve been dull lately, mon ami. Even your wife notices."
A lie. Élodie notices nothing but her own reflection. But the barb lands. I snap my fingers. The curtains part.
And there—
You.
Draped in emerald silk, hair coiled like a serpent’s nest, a smile on her lips that doesn’t touch her eyes. My masterpiece, my reckoning