Night settled heavily over the house, pressing against the windows like a listening ear.
They gathered around the small dining table, a single lamp casting long, nervous shadows. Isabelle sat hunched, fingers twisting in her lap. Mary watched her closely now—not as a sister alone, but as someone gauging how deep the snare had gone.
"Tell us everything," Mary said gently. "From the beginning."
Isabelle hesitated, then nodded. "After Father died, I thought the debts were manageable. A few merchants. Some port fees. Then Jacques appeared—polite at first. Flowers. Condolences." Her mouth tightened. "He said he'd bought the debt. All of it."
Thomas's voice was sharp. "Bought it—or manufactured it?"
Isabelle looked up, startled. "What do you mean?"
"He's known for it," Thomas said grimly. "Inflating numbers. Adding interest that never existed. Once your name's in his ledger, you never truly leave."
Isabelle's face drained of color. "Then I was ruined before I even knew."
Mary reached for her hand again. "What has he asked of you?"
Isabelle swallowed. "Attendance. Appearances. Dinners with his associates. Smiling. Letting him imply things." Her voice dropped. "He hasn't touched me. Not yet. He likes control more than flesh."
Mary felt her stomach twist.
"And tonight?" Thomas asked.
"He wanted me to convince you to leave town," Isabelle said quietly. "Said your presence complicated matters."
Mary let out a slow breath. "So we're leverage."
"Yes."
Silence fell again, thicker than before.
Thomas pushed back his chair. "Then we change the terms."
Mary looked at him. "You said knowledge first."
"And I meant it," he replied. "Jacques keeps meticulous records. Ledgers. Shipping manifests. Names." His eyes hardened. "If we find them—real ones—we can expose him. At the very least, force his hand."
Isabelle shook her head. "His office is guarded. And his home—"
"I know," Thomas interrupted. "That's why I won't go in through the front."
Mary studied him. "You've thought about this before."
Thomas didn't deny it. "My father tried to bring him down once. Died before he could." He paused. "This isn't just about you. Or Isabelle."
Mary felt a chill. "What happened to your father?"
"An 'accident' on the docks," Thomas said flatly. "Witnesses vanished. Records burned."
Isabelle covered her mouth.
Mary stood slowly. "Then Jacques didn't just walk into our lives tonight. He's been circling us for years."
A knock sounded again—sharp, deliberate.
All three of them froze.
Thomas moved first, peering through the curtain.
"There's a carriage outside," he whispered. "Black. Ivory trim."
Isabelle's breath hitched. "He said he wouldn't come back tonight."
Mary's heart pounded, but her voice was calm. "He lies."
The knock came again.
This time, a voice followed—smooth, amused.
"Miss Isabelle," Jacques called. "I believe we have unfinished business."
Mary felt something shift inside her—not fear, but resolve.
She stepped toward the door.
Thomas grabbed her arm. "Mary—"
She met his eyes. "He thinks I'm something to be bought." A thin, dangerous smile touched her lips. "Let him keep thinking that."
Before either of them could stop her, Mary opened the door.
Jacques stood there, perfectly composed, hat tipped politely. His gaze flicked past her, cataloguing the room, the tension, the silence.
"Well," he said lightly. "Still awake. How fortunate."
Mary folded her arms. "State your business."
His eyes gleamed. "I've come to collect."
Behind her, Isabelle stood, trembling.
Thomas clenched his fists.
And Jacques Moreau stepped inside—utterly unaware that for the first time in his life, the balance of power had begun to tilt.