Power and Prey

4.

 As [Y/N] stepped out of the shop, a small, genuine smile curved your lips. The day had gone smoother than you expected, and for the first time in what felt like ages, your thoughts weren't entirely consumed by the Marquis's unsettling letter. The pearls you had chosen felt perfect, and your conversation with Madame Laurence had been just the distraction you needed. The afternoon sun bathed the street in golden light as you climbed into your waiting carriage. The coachman tipped his hat, and as the carriage began to move, you leaned back against the plush cushions, feeling more at ease than you had since the Marquis's invitation arrived.

As they rolled through the busy streets of Paris, you absentmindedly parted the curtain beside you, peeking out at the world beyond. People bustled about, vendors shouted their wares, and children darted between stalls, laughing as they played. And then, as if by fate, your eyes landed on a familiar figure.

Gabriel.

He was walking down the street, his brown hair catching the sunlight, deep in conversation with another man. From the way they stood, it was clear they knew each other well. You couldn't hear what they were talking about, nor could you see the other man's face, but Gabriel's easy manner and occasional laughter told you it was something lighthearted.

For a brief moment, your fingers twitched as if they wanted to raise in a wave—a simple gesture of recognition. But you stopped yourself. Waving from the carriage window to a common shoemaker? That would hardly be appropriate for someone of your station. Your lips pressed together in a thoughtful line as you lowered the curtain, your mind racing. Though the moment passed, a part of you regretted not acknowledging him. It had been so rare lately to feel any connection outside the world of expectations, power, and carefully guarded facades. Gabriel, with his genuine demeanor and simple occupation, had somehow disrupted the endless stream of formality that surrounded you. And now, seeing him again, your heart stirred with a curiosity you couldn't quite shake.

But you were the Baroness de [L/N], and he was a shoemaker. It would be scandalous for you to interact with him beyond the most polite of encounters. And yet... you couldn't stop the small thrill that ran through you when you thought of your next meeting.

When [Y/N] arrived home, you were almost bracing yourself for the sight of another letter from the Marquis awaiting you on the silver tray by the door. Each day since his initial message had brought another worrisome thought, more personal than the last, and though the words were polite, there was an undercurrent that made you uneasy. But today, to your surprise, there was nothing.

No letter.

The absence of it brought a wave of unexpected relief. Perhaps it was too soon to assume he had given up, but for now, you were thankful for the reprieve. You handed your gloves and hat to Aveline and made your way deeper into the house, seeking solace in your favorite part of the estate—the library.

As you wandered through the halls, your steps slowed as you passed the portraits of your parents. They hung side by side, framed in intricate gold, their eyes looking down at you with a kind of eternal grace. Your father, strong and imposing in his fancy clothes, and your mother, elegant and serene, gazing at you with warmth and love. You paused in front of the paintings, your gaze lingering on your mother's face. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, and for a moment, you could almost hear your mother's soft laughter or feel the steady presence of your father nearby. Their absence had left a hollow space in your life, one that not even your title, wealth, or the constant whirl of Parisian society could fill.

"I miss you... so much."

You stood there for a long moment, lost in your memories. The years since they had passed away from that cruel sickness had changed you irrevocably. Life had moved on, of course—it always did—but it hadn't been the same. Without their guidance, without their love, you had felt the weight of your responsibilities more acutely than ever before. Their home had grown quieter, colder. You missed their laughter that used to echo through the halls, the way your father's deep voice would tell you stories, and your mother's gentle embrace when you needed comfort.