Power and Poison

The door still hung open slightly, letting in the chill from the hallway.

Mary turned to Thomas, her voice low but firm, her curiosity battling unease.

"Who is he?" she asked. "Why did you react like that? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Thomas opened his mouth, hesitant, searching for the right words—when suddenly, the stranger paused at the threshold again, as if summoned by the weight of her question.

He turned around slowly.

Now she saw him more clearly in the light—his dark coat slick with expensive fabric, an ivory-topped cane in one hand, and a curled moustache that sat above lips made for smugness. His black hair, long and swept back to his shoulders, shimmered faintly like oil. There was something almost theatrical about him. But his presence carried real danger.

"Well, well," he said, striding back a step or two with lazy confidence, "you're prettier up close."

Mary tensed, taking a small step back.

He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her like a man inspecting an item behind glass. "I'm Jacques Moreau. Wealthiest man in this part of England. Half the ports and all the trades around here go through my books." He gave a slight grin, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"You look good, girl," he said with a slow smirk. "Ever considered what it's like to be kept? I don't mind spending on things that shine."

Mary's lips parted—not in surprise, but in disgust.

Thomas, standing behind her, clenched his fists at his side. His face was red, but his voice never came.

Mary could feel it: the restraint. The fear.

She looked between them—Thomas's trembling fury, and Jacques's cruel confidence—and it clicked.

Power. That's what this was.

Jacques had it.

Thomas feared it.

And Mary loathed it.

With cold composure, she straightened her back. "I'm not something you can buy, Mr. Moreau."

He laughed. "Oh, darling. You'd be surprised. In this world, everything has a price. Even pride."

Then he looked at Thomas, eyes narrowed. "And you. You're quiet today. No bite? What happened to your father's fire?"

Thomas remained still, lips a tight line.

Mary stepped forward, her voice steady now. "You can leave, Mr. Moreau. Whatever business you have with Isabelle, take it up with her—not with us."

Jacques chuckled, clapping once, mockingly.

"Well said. Spirited." He turned once more, this time not stopping. "We'll speak again. I always get what I want. One way or another."

And then he vanished into the hall, like a wolf slipping back into the trees.

---

Mary closed the door slowly. She could barely hear herself breathe.

She turned to Thomas.

"What was that?"

Thomas exhaled shakily. "He's not just a businessman. Jacques is the reason half the city's officials stay silent. Ports, bribery, trafficking… even whispers of worse. He's dangerous, Mary. And he's not the kind of man who forgets a grudge."

Mary's hands tightened into fists. "And Isabelle... she's involved with him?"

"I don't know. But if she is," Thomas said darkly, "then we need to get out. Now."

But Mary didn't move.

Her mind was already racing toward only one thing: Isabelle.

What had she gotten herself tangled in?

And more urgently—was she safe?