The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows of Café Lutece as Clorinde and Navia finished their conversation. Navia had long since recovered from her secondhand embarrassment, though she still occasionally fanned herself dramatically whenever Clorinde mentioned another detail of the previous night. They parted with a hug—Navia whispering “Go get him, Champion” into her ear—and Clorinde walked back toward the townhouse alone, heart pounding with a strange mixture of resolve and anticipation.

  She had already decided: tonight she would not return to this house as a daughter under her father’s roof. She would return—if she returned at all—as a woman who had chosen her own path.

  The front door opened before she could knock. étienne stood there, cane planted firmly, expression as unreadable as ever. No surprise. No greeting. Just the quiet acknowledgment that she had come back, and that she had come back changed.

  Clorinde stepped inside without waiting for permission.

  “I’m here to pack,” she said simply. “I won’t be staying here anymore.”

  étienne closed the door behind her. The sound echoed in the hallway like a verdict.

  “You’re moving into the Fortress,” he stated. Not a question.

  “Yes.”

  He watched her climb the stairs—back straight, steps measured—and said nothing more until she reached her room. Then his voice followed her up, low but carrying.

  “You understand what this means.”

  Clorinde paused on the landing, hand on the banister.

  “I do.”

  Silence stretched between them—long, heavy, filled with all the years neither had known how to bridge.

  étienne exhaled through his nose.

  “I will not stop you,” he said at last. “But I will not pretend to approve.”

  Clorinde turned to face him fully.

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  She continued up the stairs.

  Her bedroom was exactly as she had left it: bed made with military precision, sword rack polished, a single shelf of books on dueling theory and Fontaine law. No personal touches. No softness. She had never needed them here.

  She opened her wardrobe and began packing—methodically at first, then with growing uncertainty.

  Uniforms. Spare blades. Cleaning kits. A small case of gunpowder and bullets. All practical. All professional.

  Nothing soft. Nothing that said woman instead of Champion.

  She paused, fingers brushing the midnight-blue dress Navia had insisted Chiori make for their first “date.” The fabric still carried the faint scent of Emilie’s perfume—mint and citrus, warm and inviting. She lifted it, held it against herself in the mirror.

  It felt… right.

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  But it was just one dress. One moment.

  She needed more.

  She needed to be seen—not just as the blade of Fontaine, but as someone Wriothesley could hold without armor between them.

  She packed the dress carefully, then hesitated over the rest of her wardrobe. Everything else was black, tailored, functional. Adequate for duty. Inadequate for desire.

  She closed the wardrobe door.

  She would need to stop somewhere else first.

  Chiori’s atelier was still open when Clorinde arrived—late-afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, bolts of silk and velvet glowing like jewels on the shelves. The bell chimed softly as she entered.

  Chiori looked up from her drafting table, one perfect eyebrow arching.

  “Back so soon? I thought the dress was for a single occasion.”

  Clorinde hesitated at the threshold—hands clasped behind her back, posture still military-straight despite the flush creeping up her neck.

  “I need… more,” she said quietly. “Something casual. Something that isn’t a uniform. Something…” She swallowed. “Something a man might like.”

  Chiori’s other eyebrow joined the first.

  Then she smiled—slow, knowing, delighted.

  “Come in, Champion. Let’s make him forget his own name.”

  Clorinde stepped inside, cheeks burning.

  She explained—haltingly, shyly, but shamelessly—what she wanted: clothes that felt like her, but softer. More inviting. Pieces that would make Wriothesley look at her the way he had last night—hungry, reverent, undone.

  Chiori listened without judgment, already pulling fabrics from shelves: deep indigos, soft charcoals, a daring midnight-rose that caught the light like spilled wine. She draped swatches across Clorinde’s shoulders, studied her reflection, murmured measurements and adjustments.

  Then the shop door chimed again.

  Emilie stepped inside—delivery basket on one arm, pale blonde hair catching the afternoon glow. She paused when she saw Clorinde standing on the fitting platform, half-draped in silk.

  “Oh,” Emilie said, eyes widening. “Am I interrupting?”

  Chiori waved her over. “Perfect timing. Our Champion is preparing for conquest.”

  Emilie set her basket down and joined them, inhaling deeply as she circled Clorinde.

  “You’re wearing my blend,” she noted with satisfaction. “That’s good. But you need something stronger for tonight.” She opened her basket, pulled out a small crystal vial stoppered with silver. “This one is my new special blend. It has rosewood, vanilla pod, a touch of smoked amber. Warm. Intimate. And impossible to ignore.”

  Clorinde accepted the vial, uncorked it, and inhaled.

  ”How much is this?” She asked.

  ”Oh, there’s no need for that. It’s still a sample so feel free to take it. You just have to let me know what he thinks of it later.” Emilie winked and was grinning in satisfaction.

  The scent bloomed—rich, heady, like a secret whispered against skin.

  Chiori and Emilie exchanged a look.

  “No man would dare reject someone like you,” Chiori said softly.

  Emilie nodded in agreement. “Not when he sees you in these clothes. And smells you in this perfume.”

  Clorinde’s cheeks flamed.

  She bought three outfits: a flowing charcoal wrap dress that cinched at the waist and fell to mid-calf; a deep indigo blouse with subtle silver threading paired with tailored trousers that hugged her hips; and—on impulse—the midnight-rose silk that felt dangerous against her skin. She also took the perfume vial, tucking it carefully into her satchel.

  By the time she left Chiori’s, the sun had dipped low, painting the streets in rose and amber.

  She returned to her father’s house one last time.

  He was in the sitting room—still in his chair, still silent.

  She packed efficiently: uniforms, weapons, the new clothes from Chiori, a small case of personal items. She left the rest behind—books, training gear, childhood relics she no longer needed.

  When she descended the stairs with her luggage, étienne rose.

  “You’re leaving,” he said. Not a question.

  “Yes.”

  He looked at the bags. At her face.

  “You’ll regret this.”

  Clorinde met his gaze steadily.

  “I regret more years spent thinking I had to earn your approval,” she said quietly. “I’m done earning it.”

  She walked past him—luggage in one hand, heart steady.

  The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.

  She didn’t look back.

  The night she wanted was drawing near.

  And this time, she was ready.

  Wriothesley’s shirt had been a revelation—soft, oversized, carrying his scent like a claim. She thought of the way his eyes had darkened when he saw her in it, the way his breath had caught, the way his hands had trembled when he touched her.

  Borrowing it again was not a bad idea.

  In fact, she decided, it was an excellent one.

  She smiled—small, secret, anticipatory—and turned toward the Fortress checkpoint.

  The night was just beginning.