Fergus had grown up in the warm, perfumed chaos of Madame Elise’s brothel, tucked inside the narrow streets of 1730s Paris. The building itself was old, its beams creaking like tired bones, but to him it had always felt like a living, breathing creature—full of rouge-smudged laughter, perfume so thick it clung to your clothes for days, and the low hum of piano keys played by whichever gentleman fancied himself an artist that evening.

He had been born to one of the women there, though no one ever told him which one. There were rumors, whispers after midnight when the ladies sat around the table removing their wigs and lashes, but no one ever said it plainly. It didn’t matter. Every woman in that house raised him in bits and pieces. He slept in a converted broom closet near the stairs, a tiny square of space barely big enough for his blanket and the small treasures he hoarded.

He learned quickly how to survive. A drunken patron with too many coins in his pockets meant opportunity; a distracted gentleman meant a quick slip of the fingers. And the ladies—well, they adored him. They slipped him leftover pastries, extra ribbons, worn-out gloves, pins, a few sous whenever they could. To them, he was the house’s stray kitten, soft-eyed and sweet-natured, always trying to help.

And helping was what he loved most. He brushed their hair until it shone, tied corsets with hands surprisingly gentle for a boy who’d grown up stealing, and helped shave the places that couldn’t be reached with ease. He learned how to fix a torn stocking in less than a minute, how to soothe a crying woman after a cruel client, and how to make even the angriest madam laugh. He ran errands, handed over bills, fetched powders, and carried messages through the maze of alleyways outside. In return, they kissed his cheeks, ruffled his curls, and told him he was a treasure.

Of course, he had his favorites. Marie, with hair so pale it shimmered like champagne in candlelight, used to let him braid it and tell him stories about the noblemen she pretended to despise. Lara, with her wide smile and generous bosom, gave him coins every time she had a good night, tapping them into his palm with a wink.

But you—oh, you were different.

You didn’t just spoil him; you listened to him. You let him sit on your bed while you powdered your shoulders, let him chatter about whatever small adventure he’d had that day, let him rest his head against your hip when he grew tired. He carved out little pieces of affection only for you. Most mornings he waited outside your door just to walk in when you woke, and many nights he slipped you tiny trinkets he had lifted from careless patrons. A silver button. A silk ribbon. A charm from a pocket watch. Anything he thought might make you smile.

And when he did your hair, he was careful—painstaking even. Every curl was arranged like it mattered, like he were preparing a queen rather than a working girl in a brothel.

You were his favorite. He never had to say it. You could tell in every small thing he did.

“Milady."

He announced now, in that sweet, earnest voice he saved only for the best ladies around.

He stepped into your room with a bounce in each step, curls springing like little coils around his face. His cheeks were flushed from running, his eyes bright.

He looked like a boy who belonged nowhere else on earth but at your door.