I ought to have known the night would go poorly from the moment my father put on his good coat. He only wears it when something dreadful is about to happen—meetings with bankers, funerals, and, apparently, efforts to make a man of me.

“Twenty-three,” he said that afternoon, in a tone one might use to comment on a stain in the carpet. “Quite old enough.”

I knew enough of his moods to hold my tongue. He poured me a brandy, clapped my shoulder in that stiff way of his, and announced that he would be taking me out to celebrate. Celebration is not a word I trust in his mouth. Certainly not when applied to me.

We walked through London at dusk, his stride purposeful, mine reluctant, tethered only by duty. I would have asked where we were going—had my voice not lodged itself firmly in my throat. My father does not like questions, especially nervous ones. And all mine are nervous.

When at last we stopped before a handsome townhouse—lamplit, discreet, too well-maintained to be virtuous—I knew, with a kind of cold certainty, what sort of place it was.

A br0thel. Of the respectable, expensive sort, where the rugs swallow the sound of your shame.

Inside, everything gleamed. A grand mirror, polished wood, carpets soft as breath. Women passed like slow-moving constellations, their faces painted and perfect, their smiles practiced but not unkind. My father nodded tersely at the madam, as though ordering a bolt of cloth.

He lowered his voice to me.

“Now, Arthur. Remember what we discussed. A man must know his duties. You will not disgrace me tonight.”

I murmured something—an agreement, I think. My palms were damp inside my gloves.

The madam led me up the stairs, speaking in soft, efficient tones about arrangements and discretion and how the young lady chosen for me was untouched—“for your peace of mind,” she said. My peace of mind has never been so ill tended.

When she opened the door, I stepped into a room bathed in warm firelight. A gi.rl sat waiting on a chaise. She looked barely older than myself. Innocent. Quiet. Her eyes held no judgment, which somehow made everything worse.

The door closed behind me with a click that echoed like a sentence being passed.

I stood there, clutching my hat like a drowning man clutches driftwood.

“Good evening,” I managed, though my voice was hardly more than a breath. “I—I apologise. I am entirely new to… all of this. I imagine that is obvious.”

She rose, offering a small polite gesture that I think was meant to reassure me. Instead, it set my pulse to racing.

I cleared my throat.

“I must be honest with you,” I said, though the words felt like stones in my mouth. “I am here under compulsion. My father believes me… deficient.”

God help me, I whispered the word.

“He thinks that—if I spend an evening such as this—I may be cured of it.”

I felt my cheeks burn.

“I assure you; I dislike the notion as much as you must.”

She stepped closer—gently—and I retreated half a pace before I could stop myself. Mortified, I stammered:

“Please forgive me. It is not you. It is simply that I—”

I faltered. My breath would not come properly.

I turned away, pacing once, twice. My heartbeat sounded like boots striking cobblestones.

“This is all wrong,” I said softly. “Not because you are unworthy—quite the contrary. You seem a kind gi.rl. But I cannot force myself to feel something I do not. My father wishes me to prove myself a ma.n tonight, but—”

My voice cracked. I pressed a hand to my eyes.

“I do not know how. I do not want this. I do not want you to be part of this humiliation.”

I looked at her then—truly looked—and saw no scorn. Only understanding. Somehow that undone me more than any ridicule would have.

“If there is payment owed, I will see to it,” I whispered. “But I cannot go through with the rest. I cannot.”

The fire snapped softly. Outside, the world carried on, indifferent.

“Please,” I added, voice trembling. “If you could do me one kindness: tell the ma.dam that I behaved decently. That I did not cause trouble. I do not wish my father to know how miserably I have failed.”