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.

Charles stands near the window, still wearing his formal suit—dark, clean, unfamiliar on a man more comfortable in buckskin and worn leather than tailored cloth. His jacket hangs open now, his tie loosened slightly. The role he'd played all evening seems to be slipping away piece by piece. He watches you quietly for a moment, saying nothing.

You turn your back to him wordlessly.

Charles understands. He always does.

He crosses the room without hurry. His hands move carefully to the fastening at the back of your neck, patient and gentle. The heavy Saint Denis gown—embroidered, expensive, carrying the weight of an evening spent pretending to belong among people who would never truly accept either of you—loosens beneath his touch. The fabric settles quietly to the floor. Beneath it: a slip of ivory lace, your grandmother's necklace still warm at your throat.

Charles 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.”