TW: 18+ CONTENT & MENTIONS OF SEXUAL AND DRUG ABUSE
Alfred Currall reclined upon the settee with careless ease, one leg thrown over the armrest, the other planted upon the table as though the world itself were beneath his regard. Arrogance clung to him as naturally as breath: effortless, unchallenged. A glass of wine dangled from his fingers, and he drank not for taste, but for indulgence, as though excess alone were proof of his station.
He spoke as men like him often did; loudly, crudely, and with the expectation of admiration.
"I recall a woman near Whitechapel," he began, a smirk tugging at his lips. "A place as wretched as the creature herself. I went to her, naturally; one must find amusement where one can."
Laughter rippled through the gathered nobles, eager and hollow.
"She wept, made a dreadful show of it," he continued, waving his hand dismissively. "I screwed her like I would a pig, after all. It is part of the performance, I think. When I was finished, I paid her well enough. More than she deserved, perhaps."
A few chuckles followed, encouraged by his tone, emboldened by the safety of shared cruelty.
"Then, weeks later, she reappears," Alfred scoffed, swirling the wine in his glass.
"Claiming she carries my child. Imagine the audacity. As though I were the only man she had ever entertained." His lips curled. "I gave her a few coins to quiet her. Charity, if you will. But she persisted, as they all do; clinging, insisting, inventing claims to extract more."
His laughter rose again, louder this time, and the others joined him without hesitation. To them, it was nothing more than sport, a story to be enjoyed, a woman reduced to a punchline.
But not all who listened were amused.
From the edges of the room, where shadow clung more thickly, something stirred. A presence, still and coiled, bearing witness with a silence far heavier than the laughter that filled the air.
Then...
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried. Certain.
The sound cut through the noise as the crowd shifted, their attention drawn to the woman who now stepped into the light. She was elegant in her bearing, her ginger hair arranged with deliberate care, her pale complexion softened beneath powder and paint. There was something almost playful in the way she carried herself; eyes bright, lips curved with a knowing hint of intrigue.
"Good evening, my lord," she said, her voice smooth, touched with a faint lilt of curiosity. Her gaze settled upon Alfred, unwavering.
"I could not help but be…captivated by your tale."
Her smile lingered, delicate and dangerous all at once.
"Tell me," she added, tilting her head ever so slightly, "are you quite certain she was what you claim her to be?"
"My, what a ravishing creature you are," he murmured, teeth grazing his lower lip as though savoring a forbidden indulgence. "Pray, tell me, what name does such beauty answer to?"
Dorothy inclined herself in a bow, yet there lingered within the motion a stiffness, a quiet bitterness that rendered the gesture less grace and more restraint. "Dorothy, sire."
A slow, serpentine smile unfurled across his face, stretching almost unnaturally wide. "Ah…Dorothy."
He straightened, his presence looming, an air of practiced charm cloaked in something darker as he advanced toward her.
"And tell me," he breathed, voice dipped in velvet temptation. "What name might you bear when divested of all pretense…and clothing?"
"Must even that be altered?" Her eyes flickered, veiling the revulsion that stirred beneath her composed exterior.
"Well," he replied with a low chuckle. "Only if you desire the night to be…memorable."
A smile ghosted upon Dorothy's lips, measured, knowing, as though she alone held the threads of this unfolding scene.
"Would a fleeting caress upon my thigh suffice," she countered softly. "To earn an answer to my earlier inquiry?"
Alfred's hand extended, drawn by impulse, yet halted by the obstinate barrier of layered fabric. A shadow crossed his features, impatience gnawing at his composure. "Why such curiosity?"
Her voice cooled, sharpened with intent. "Because I wish to know what wretched woman would stoop to such degradation."
A quiet laugh escaped him, low and intimate, as he leaned nearer, his breath grazing the shell of her ear like a secret not meant for the light.
"Then perhaps," he whispered. "You should ask yourself…how far you are willing to descend to find her."
Seraphine stood apart, her brows drawn into a troubled furrow. Disdain burned quietly in her gaze as it fell upon Alfred. The thought alone that the fragile sanctity of innocence could be so grotesquely warped, that the boy he once was had withered into this man, sent a cold tremor coiling down her spine.
Dorothy, resolute and composed, seized Alfred's hands and guided them to rest upon her hips. The gesture, though intimate in appearance, was but a calculated veil, an invitation not of desire, but of secrecy. Alfred, blind to the storm beneath her calm, yielded eagerly, his expression softened by anticipation, unaware of the ruin inching closer with every step.
As they moved through shadowed corridors, Dorothy's voice returned; soft, insistent, edged with something sharper than curiosity.
"Tell me…do you truly not recall the maiden's name?"
Alfred exhaled, a feigned sigh slipping past lips curved in quiet arrogance.
"Well…" he began, savoring the moment, "I do remember. The names of my women are trophies, after all."
Dorothy's gaze did not waver. "And what was she called?"
"Harlowe Evenwick," he replied, the name rolling from his tongue with disturbing ease.
"She was a daughter of a carpenter who owned a measly furniture shop along Flower and Dean Street." He paused, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. "Her father owed me a considerable sum. The payment was beyond his means. So I requested collateral and he offered his daughter."
His eyes gleamed, devoid of shame.
The casual cruelty of his confession struck like a blade beneath Dorothy's ribs. Her blood surged, seething with a fury that begged to be unleashed, yet her face remained a porcelain mask, unbroken, unreadable. For now, she swallowed the fire.
She needed the truth.
And more than that, she needed the means to destroy Alfred Currall.
"Then she was no prostitute," Dorothy concluded.
"It would be safe to assume as much," Alfred replied with a curl of disdain upon his lips. "Though women of those quarters have long since learned to barter their bodies for pitiful coin. Perhaps that demon who slaughtered Mary Jane Kelly was merely deceived by her, say, enterprise."
He gave a low, self-satisfied chuckle. "Men, you see, are so often compelled into such indulgences."
Dorothy's gaze fixed upon him, unblinking, intent. There was something in her stare, hollow yet searching, as though she sought to peel back the thin veneer of civility he wore like a mask.
"And you?" she asked softly. "Do you feel compelled to be with me?"
For the briefest moment, Alfred faltered. A flush rose unbidden to his face, betraying a flicker of something unfamiliar, uncertainty, perhaps, or the faint echo of shame long buried.
"I do not," he answered at last, his voice lowering as he forced a smile. "Not at all, little plum."