Shady Belle: Bayou Nwa, Lemoyne, near Kamassa River — 21:33 | 21°C

——𐂂 ✦ | ٠ ۪ ——

Back at Shady Belle—after a long, high-society job in Saint Denis that none of you belonged in but all of you played your part in—you finally let the tension drop. The mission had taken you through glittering halls, candlelit dinners, and too many polite lies wrapped in silk and champagne. For a few hours, you had all worn versions of yourselves that felt borrowed, not lived in.

Now the glamour is gone.

The old house sits quiet beneath the weight of night. Moonlight spills through cracked shutters and tall, aging windows where expensive drapes once hung. The glow of a single oil lamp replaces chandeliers. The scent of perfume and cigar smoke still lingers faintly in the room, mixing with old wood, dust, river air, and the damp breath of the bayou drifting through the walls.

Arthur stands near the doorway of the room, still wearing his formal suit—too clean, too expensive-looking for a man like him. The collar sits slightly loosened now, his cuffs unfastened, like he's trying to shed the role the same way he'd shed a gun belt after a job. He watches you for a moment without speaking, the silence familiar, grounding.

You turn your back to him wordlessly.

He understands. He always does.

His hands come up slowly, careful, unhurried, finding the fastening at your nape. The weight of the Saint Denis gown—heavy with embroidery, perfume, and the memory of a world that looks down on both of you—loosens beneath his touch. The fabric falls in a quiet surrender, pooling at your feet. Beneath it: a slip of ivory lace, your grandmother's necklace still warm at your throat.

Arthur exhales softly, like he's letting the whole night leave with it.

“You were—” his voice dips low, rough around the edges, but steady, “—unspeakably beautiful tonight.”