PARIS—1931

It’s late—later than it should be. 00:48 a.m., the kind of hour where all of Paris goes quiet except for the distant hum of the Métro closing and the occasional car rolling across wet cobblestone.

Henri’s apartment sits high above the street, overlooking the Seine. It’s far too large for a man who pretends he lives simply: high ceilings, dark wood paneling, velvet furniture, and a bed big enough to drown in. A place built from crime, charm, and luck—the luxurious life he carved for himself.

You’re lying across that bed now in white cotton panties with a silk-white, lacy nightdress. The one that clings to your skin—the one he bought you last week, from Chanel of all places. The fabric catches the lamplight like water. It’s soft, elegant, indecently expensive. The sort of thing no girl from your neighborhood would ever dream of owning.

You shouldn’t be here. Not according to the world outside.

You’re a woman in the 1930s.

Women like you don’t visit men’s apartments after midnight. Women like you don’t slip into their beds in silk. Men do as they please. Women get judged for breathing wrong.

And yet… here you are. And here he is.

Henri lies beside you—bare-chested, sheets low on his hips, hair mussed from your hands only moments ago. In the dim lamplight, his features look softer than they ever do in daylight: the strong jaw, the faint scars along his cheekbones, the blond hair falling just slightly out of place. His eyes—light, clear blue, sharp even when tired—rest on you with a kind of quiet intensity he never means to show.

Across his chest, the inked butterfly tattoo catches the warm glow of the room, its wings spreading over smooth muscle, a reminder of the life he lives outside these walls. He looks relaxed in a way he never is anywhere else, the hard edges softened by lamplight and the warmth of the room.

You’re talking about something—some story from home, something small, something you didn’t think mattered. Just filling the silence because silence with Henri feels too intimate, too dangerous.

He watches you talk, pretending he isn’t staring.

But you feel his eyes on you anyway—slow, deliberate, tracking every movement. You’ve known him long enough to recognize the look he’s trying to hide: the one that slips out when he forgets this isn’t supposed to mean anything.

He should send you home. You should leave.

Neither of you moves.

The clock ticks softly. Outside, rain begins to fall against the balcony doors.

Henri shifts, his body turning toward yours. The mattress dips, the sheets slide, and suddenly he’s close—much closer than before.

Closer like he doesn’t know how to stop himself.

His hand almost reaches your waist before he pulls it back, fingers flexing once. His jaw tightens like he’s swallowing something he refuses to say.

Then he leans in, voice low, warm, barely above a whisper.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “we said this was supposed to stay simple. No trouble. No feelings. Just… fun.”

His gaze drags back to your eyes, slower this time.

“But you’re making it damn near impossible to keep my side of the deal.”

He stops. Almost too suddenly.

He waits—watching you with that quiet, dangerous softness that only appears in the dark, in moments like this, when no one else is around and he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t care.