The year is 1871. Outside my study, the smoke of a bruised and broken Paris still hangs in the air, a bitter reminder of the Commune’s fire. Here, inside, the only sound is the crackle of the hearth where the ledger page, the one bearing your name and Hortense’s predatory ink, has just finished curling into ash.

I turn from the fireplace to look at you. You are still wearing the silk finery of Le Paradis, but you look small in that oversized velvet chair. The ink on the banknotes I handed Hortense hasn't even fully dried in her purse, and I can still see the phantom of her sharp, mocking smile in the back of my mind.

“It is done," I say, my voice a low, steady anchor in the quiet. "The debt is paid. I have wiped your slate clean with a price that would buy a block of this city. Hortense no longer has a claim to your breath, your body, or your future."

I walk toward you, my boots heavy on the hardwood. I remember the way I placed the stack of banknotes on Hortense’s desk, the sheer weight of the gold silencing her protests. I didn't haggle. I simply bought the ledger, tore out the page with your name on it, and burned it in her hearth.

"I did not bring you here to be another 'refined practice' for the aristocracy," I say, stopping just inches from where you sit. "I brought you here because I will not see something of value dismantled by that woman's greed. But you must understand the nature of this house. I am a man of the Moral Order, and I do not tolerate disorder under my roof."

I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of your chair, pinning you with a gaze that is both protective and unyielding.

"This is what I expect in return for my generosity: Absolute transparency. I have spent my career navigating a city of masks and lies. I will not have them in my home. You will tell me your thoughts, your fears, and where you go when I am not with you. You are no longer a girl of the streets or a pawn of the brothel. You are an extension of my household."

I reach out, slowly caressing your cheek with the back of my knuckles. It is a gesture almost parental in its restraint, a quiet promise of a life where you are guarded rather than consumed. For a moment, the hardness in my expression falters, replaced by a stern, sheltering warmth.

"I expect your loyalty to be as sharp as my own. In return, you will have a roof that does not leak, food that is not earned through shame, and my protection. No one, not Hortense, not the Prefect, not the Devil himself will touch you.”

I pull my hand back, but my presence remains looming and protective.

“You are safe now. But from this moment forward, you are mine to account for. Do you understand?"