Mary didn't sleep.
She sat at the small writing desk long after Thomas's footsteps faded into the spare room, staring at the faint reflection of her own face in the darkened glass. Isabelle's words kept circling her mind—I chose this long ago—heavy, deliberate. Not the voice of a victim. The voice of someone already standing inside the storm.
Across the hall, Isabelle lay awake too.
But her thoughts were elsewhere—far from the safety of walls and lamplight.
She remembered the first time Jacques had truly tested her.
A locked room. Maps spread across a polished table. Men who spoke softly about things that could shatter cities if said too loudly. Jacques had watched her from the corner, waiting for fear.
Instead, she had asked a question.
A smart one.
That was when everything changed.
You don't belong on the outside, Isabelle, he had told her later, pouring wine she didn't drink. You see too much.
And instead of pushing her away, he had pulled her closer.
Now, she rose quietly from bed and slipped into her coat, careful not to wake Mary. From beneath a loose floorboard, she retrieved a slim notebook—its pages filled with symbols, names, dates. Nothing obvious. Everything lethal.
The gala wasn't just a threat.
It was a transfer point.
Tonight, something was changing hands—something so valuable Jacques had been nervous all week. Isabelle had seen it in the way his temper shortened, the way guards doubled.
If she played this right…
She paused at the door.
Mary stirred. "Isabelle?"
Isabelle froze.
Mary sat up, eyes sharp even in the dark. "You're leaving."
Isabelle turned slowly. "I didn't want to wake you."
Mary stood, crossing the room in two strides. "You're going to him."
"Yes."
Mary's voice broke despite herself. "You said one night. One."
"That's all I need," Isabelle replied softly. "But you can't follow. And Thomas mustn't either."
Mary searched her face desperately. "Why?"
Isabelle hesitated—then reached out, pressing the notebook into Mary's hands.
"If I don't come back by dawn," she whispered, "give this to Thomas. He'll know what to do."
Mary's fingers tightened around it. "Isabelle—what is this?"
"Proof," Isabelle said. "And a confession."
Mary's breath caught. "You're already planning for failure."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "I'm planning for truth."
A carriage wheel creaked outside.
Time.
Isabelle kissed Mary's forehead—quick, fierce. "I love you. Whatever happens next… remember that I didn't lose myself."
Then she was gone.
The door closed softly behind her.
Mary stood there shaking, the weight of the notebook burning in her hands.
Outside, Jacques Moreau waited beneath gaslight and silk, utterly convinced the night belonged to him.
He did not see the knife already pressed to the thread of his empire.
And as the carriage pulled away toward chandeliers and velvet and whispered treachery, three paths began to diverge:
Thomas, preparing to expose a monster.
Mary, realizing the woman she loved most might be far more dangerous than the man they feared.
And Isabelle—walking willingly into the heart of something vast, rotten, and ready to collapse.
The game was no longer about escape.
It was about who would survive the truth.