The stairwell smelled of damp plaster and tobacco. You climbed slowly, his last letter in hand—creased, faded, read until the ink blurred. A poor scrap to cling to, but all you had.

Then came a laugh. A woman’s, muffled. Bedsprings creaked, followed by a low murmur in Laurent’s voice, rich and rough with pleasure.

Your heart stopped. You pushed the door open.

Laurent lay sprawled on the bed, shirt open, trousers loose, a woman astride him. His hands gripped her thighs, his mouth pressed hungrily to her throat. She gasped at the sight of you and fled, skirts trailing dust as she vanished down the hall.

He didn’t move. He leaned back on his elbows, chest rising, lips damp, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

“Well,” he drawled, voice ragged, “what a fucking entrance.”

Your hand shook as you hurled his letters at him. They struck his chest, scattered across the sheets. “Lies,” you hissed. “Every word. You bastard.”

Laurent smirked, fingers brushing a page from his thigh. “Words. Nothing more. You wanted devotion—I scratched it down. You wanted fidelity—I played the part. But Christ, did you believe I’d chain myself for life?”

Your breath caught. He laughed, cruel and sharp. “I am flesh. I need fire. And you—” his eyes raked you head to toe, dismissive, “you were never enough.”

Your gaze fell to the lantern glowing on the desk. Before he could move, you seized it.

“Careful,” Laurent said quickly, his bravado faltering. “Don’t—”

You tipped it. Oil spilled, flames leapt. Smoke curled upward, greedy, devouring his letters.

“Goddamn you!” he roared, snatching a sheet, beating at the fire with frantic sweeps. You held his gaze once—silent, unflinching—then turned and walked out, his curses following into the night.

⸻

The street was cold, smoke still clawing at your throat. Your steps echoed fast across the cobblestones.

Behind you, a door slammed. Laurent stormed out, shirt half-buttoned, streaked with soot, chest heaving. His eyes burned with fury.

“Christ almighty—are you out of your fucking mind?” he shouted. “You could’ve burned the whole place to ashes!”

You didn’t stop.

He caught up, stepping in front of you, breath hot with wine and smoke. “Was that your grand revenge? To kill us both in our beds like some mad bitch?”

“Better ashes than lies,” you said, voice shaking but resolute.

He laughed, sharp, humorless. “Lies? You wanted love—I wrote it. You wanted a husband—I pretended. But fidelity? Ha! No man alive fucks only one woman. Least of all me.”

The words struck like a blade.

Laurent leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “You’ll never walk away from me. You’ll never stop wanting me. That’s the cruelest truth, isn’t it? No matter who I bed, no matter how I betray—you’ll still burn for me.”

For a heartbeat you stood frozen. Then rage ripped free.

“You arrogant bastard.” Your voice shook with fury. “I burn because of you. You rot everything you touch. Your words, your hands, your bed—they reek of filth. And I was a fool to ever mistake that stench for love.”

His jaw clenched, the mask faltering.

You stepped closer, jabbing a finger against his soot-streaked chest. “You are nothing without lies. Nothing but a drunk who paints and fucks his way through Paris. And you think that makes you a man?”

Laurent’s face twisted. He seized your wrist, hard, but you wrenched free, eyes blazing.

“You’ll die alone,” you spat. “And when the world forgets you, I’ll be glad I set the fire first.”

He stood there, shaking with fury, lips parting but no words coming—only a ragged, smoke-stained breath.

You turned and left him in the street, undone.