Mary swallowed the tightness in her throat.
"No," she said quietly. "We don't run. Not yet."
Thomas stared at her. "Mary, you don't understand what kind of—"
"I understand enough," she cut in, turning toward the window as if Isabelle might appear in the street below by sheer force of will. "If Jacques Moreau is circling her, leaving now won't protect her. It'll abandon her."
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
Thomas dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping. "If Isabelle owes him something—money, favors, anything—then confronting her outright could make things worse. Men like him don't tolerate interference."
Mary turned back, her eyes sharp. "So we do nothing?"
"No," he said slowly. "We do something smarter."
She waited.
Thomas lowered his voice, as if the walls themselves might be listening. "My father used to say power rots fastest when dragged into the light. Jacques thrives because people are afraid to look too closely."
Mary's heart thudded. "You're talking about exposing him."
"I'm talking about learning first," Thomas replied. "Before we make a single wrong move."
Mary nodded, already thinking ahead. "Isabelle has been distant for weeks. New dresses. Late nights. Stories that don't quite line up." Her jaw tightened. "I thought she was just… changing."
Thomas met her gaze. "People don't change that fast without pressure."
A knock suddenly echoed from the door.
Both of them froze.
Thomas moved instinctively, positioning himself between Mary and the entrance. "Did you expect anyone?"
Mary shook her head, pulse hammering.
Another knock—lighter this time. Familiar.
"Mary?" came Isabelle's voice, breathless. "Are you home?"
Mary rushed forward, unlocking the door.
Isabelle stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, dark curls escaping her hat. She smiled automatically—then faltered when she saw their faces.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Mary searched her expression, looking for cracks, fear, guilt—anything.
"Did Jacques Moreau just leave you?" Mary asked.
Isabelle went very still.
Too still.
Slowly, she removed her gloves, placing them on the table with deliberate care. "You met him."
Thomas's stomach dropped. "So it's true."
Isabelle closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if bracing herself. When she opened them, the bravado was gone.
"I didn't have a choice," she said softly. "He owns my father's debts. Every last one. When Papa died, they transferred to me." Her voice wavered. "Jacques offered protection. Money. Time."
"And what did he want in return?" Mary asked, barely above a whisper.
Isabelle didn't answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
Mary felt a cold fury spread through her chest. "He threatened us. He looked at me like I was already owned."
Isabelle flinched. "I never meant for you to be involved. I swear. I thought if I kept him satisfied, he'd stay away from you."
Thomas clenched his jaw. "Men like him don't stop. They expand."
Isabelle sank into a chair, suddenly looking younger, smaller. "Then tell me what to do. Because I'm terrified."
Mary stepped forward and took her sister's hands, gripping them tightly.
"We're not afraid of him," she said firmly—even if part of her still was. "Not together."
Thomas nodded. "But we move carefully. Jacques thinks he's untouchable. That's how men like him fall."
Outside, somewhere down the street, a carriage rolled past, wheels clattering over stone.
And far away—yet far too close—Jacques Moreau smiled to himself, already planning his next move.
Because the game had begun.
And this time, he wasn't the only one willing to play.