The applause was dry. Forced.
A round of claps from men too drunk to remember the lyrics. Their eyes lingered too long, and their smirks held no grace.
Isabelle gave her final bow of the night with a mechanical smile, her red lipstick cracking at the corners. As she stepped off the stage, the lingering stench of cigar smoke and sweat clung to her like another set of chains.
She passed by the usual corner table—the one where that thick-bellied man always sat, the one who winked at her too slowly, like she was a prize to be bought.
"Sing another for me, sweetheart," he drawled as she passed.
She didn't answer.
Her feet moved faster until she was out the back door, the cold London air slapping her face like a wake-up call. She walked the four narrow blocks to her small apartment above the florist's shop, keys shaking slightly as she let herself in.
Finally alone.
Finally free—if only for a moment.
She kicked off her heels, threw her coat onto the couch, and stood at the small round table beneath the window, her hands clenched tight.
And then, as if drawn by magnet or memory, she reached into her coat pocket.
Mary's letter.
She unfolded it again, scanning the familiar curls of ink. Her name. Her voice through paper.
But the words…
> "He isn't the one who writes me under a false name."
"He isn't the one who made my heart burn…"
"He's a kind person…"
Kind.
Not cruel.
Not unworthy.
Just close enough to be dangerous.
Isabelle dropped the letter onto the table and paced the room. Her arms folded across her chest, her jaw tight.
"She talked to him," she muttered under her breath. "She smiled at him. She thanked him."
She looked at the window. Rain had started to fall, soft and slow. London blurred into a watercolor of gaslight and rain.
A whisper escaped her lips before she even realized it.
"He can't have her."
The words clung to the walls like smoke.
"She's mine," she said, louder now. "She's mine in ways he'll never understand. I've known her laugh. Her tears. Her secrets. Not just her tea preferences or which bloody fork she picks at dinner."
She ran her fingers through her hair, wild and frustrated. Her voice cracked now—not in anger, but in fear.
"I can't lose her. Not to some… gentle-handed, perfectly mannered boy who never had to risk anything to love her."
She leaned against the table, gripping its edge.
"I've sung my soul in front of men who looked at me like I was a painting they could stain. I've bled for my freedom. But she—she made it all feel clean again."
She closed her eyes.
"I'll write her. I'll remind her. She belongs with me."
And then quieter, almost as if to herself:
"I don't care if I have to crawl through every lie, every locked door, every church vow… I'll keep her."