The contract lay open on the table, its edges curling slightly as if even the paper were uneasy.
Thomas paced the length of the room, running a hand through his hair. "We need leverage. Real leverage. Names, shipments, bribes—something solid enough to make that contract worthless."
Mary sat beside Isabelle, still holding her hand. "Jacques thrives on fear. If we can replace fear with exposure, he loses his grip."
Isabelle nodded at the right moments. She murmured agreement. She even squeezed Mary's fingers back.
But her eyes were distant.
Inside Isabelle's mind, the room was very far away.
They don't know, she thought.
They don't know why I signed it so easily.
Her gaze drifted to the window, to the gray river beyond the rooftops. She remembered a different night—two years ago—standing on the docks with Jacques, the smell of salt and iron thick in the air.
You're clever, he had said then. Clever girls survive.
He hadn't offered just protection.
He had offered partnership.
"Isabelle?" Mary's voice pulled her back.
"Yes—sorry," Isabelle said softly. "I was just thinking."
Thomas stopped pacing. "Thinking about what?"
Isabelle hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "About how Jacques operates. About what he values."
Power, she thought. Control. Secrecy.
And something else.
Because Jacques Moreau wasn't just a corrupt businessman.
He was moving something through those ports. Not just goods. Not just people.
Information.
Names that could collapse governments. Artifacts that were never meant to surface. Deals that rewrote borders quietly, without wars.
And Isabelle was involved.
She had been present at dinners where maps were unrolled instead of menus. She had listened behind half-closed doors. She had memorized things Jacques assumed she was too frightened—or too owned—to understand.
He taught me without realizing it, she thought.
Or maybe he knew. And wanted me to learn.
Mary stood. "We'll get you out of this, Isabelle. I promise."
Isabelle looked up at her sister, guilt twisting sharply in her chest.
If you knew what walking away would cost…
Because the truth—the real truth—was this:
If Jacques fell the wrong way, people would die. Not metaphorically. Literally.
Men on ships. Officials with families. And one name that echoed in Isabelle's mind like a curse.
Project Black Tithe.
She had seen it written once, in a ledger Jacques never meant to leave open.
A network so large that Jacques was only one spoke in the wheel.
And Isabelle?
She wasn't just collateral.
She was insurance.
"I need to attend the gala," Isabelle said suddenly.
Mary turned sharply. "No."
"Yes," Isabelle insisted, voice steady now. "If I don't go, he'll escalate. If I do, he relaxes."
Thomas frowned. "That's too dangerous."
"It's more dangerous not to," Isabelle replied. "Trust me."
Mary searched her face. "You're hiding something."
Isabelle met her gaze—and for a heartbeat, Mary saw it.
Not fear.
Calculation.
"I'm protecting you," Isabelle said quietly. "Both of you."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "By walking into his hands?"
"No," Isabelle thought.
By stepping deeper into the fire—where I already am.
Aloud, she said, "Give me one night. Just one. Let me play the role he expects."
Mary shook her head. "I won't sacrifice you."
Isabelle stood, straightening her shoulders. For the first time, she looked like someone who had already made peace with danger.
"You're not sacrificing me," she said softly. "I chose this long ago."
Silence fell.
Outside, a distant horn sounded from the river—low, ominous.
And as Thomas and Mary bent once more over plans of rescue and exposure, Isabelle's thoughts moved ahead of them all.
Toward Jacques. Toward the gala. Toward the moment she would decide whether to bring the entire structure down—
Or become its most dangerous secret.