Chapter Text
Catherine had had many bad days in her life: days when the new Parisian gowns arrived late, days when a particularly bothersome suitor sent her yet another insipid love letter, days when her mother would host one of her dreadful tea parties. But this... oh, this must surely be the worst day of all.
She doesn't know why she didn't see the trap until it was too late. Perhaps it was because her father was the one who had laid it, with such gentle coaxing and such loving words, she had walked right in. Or perhaps it was because she had spent the entire day shopping, and her mind was pleasantly addled by thoughts of silk and pearls. Either way, she had not seen it coming.
The trap is this: she is to be married.
Not to a beau of her choosing, not to a dashing rogue who had swept her off her feet, but to Alistair Beaumont, the insipid heir of the Beaumont shipping fortune. A man whose most distinguishing feature is a perpetually bored expression and a laugh like a horse's whinny. A man she has despised since she was ten years old and he'd pulled her pigtails at a garden party and called her a "silly little girl."
Her mother, Eleanor Vance, sits opposite her at the polished mahogany dining table, her face a mask of placid satisfaction. Cornelius, her father, sits at the head of the table, looking uncharacteristically subdued, avoiding her gaze.
"It's a wonderful match, darling," Eleanor says, her voice smooth as velvet. "The Beaumonts are our equals in every way. Their shipping lines, our oil... it simply makes sense."
Catherine's knuckles are white where she grips her fork.
"I don't want to marry him," she says, her voice trembling with a fury that surprises even her. "You can't make me."
A flicker of something—disappointment? Annoyance?—crosses her mother's face before it's smoothed away. She shoots a sharp glance at Cornelius, who clears his throat, the sound rough and gravelly.
"Now, Kitty," he begins, the pet name feeling like a betrayal on his tongue. "This is for your own good. Alistair is a fine young man."
"He's dull!" Catherine cries, slamming her fork down. The tines skitter across the porcelain, leaving a thin, white scratch. "He's boring and he's stupid and I would rather die than be trapped in a marriage with him."
The room falls silent, the air thick with the scent of lilies from the centerpiece. Eleanor's lips tighten into a thin, disapproving line. Cornelius looks as though she's struck him, his face paling.
"Watch your tone, young lady," Eleanor snaps. "You will marry him. The arrangements have been made."
Catherine stares at them, at the two people who are supposed to love her, who have always given her everything she ever wanted, and sees only strangers. Strangers who have planned out her entire life as if she were a doll to be dressed and positioned. The silk gown she wears suddenly feels like a cage, the diamonds at her throat like a collar.
"This is about the business, isn't it?" she whispers, her voice hollow.
Cornelius flinches. He looks away, out the window at the manicured grounds stretching into the darkness. He cannot meet her eyes.
"You knew this was coming, Catherine," Eleanor says, picking up her spoon and stirring her tea. "You're twenty-five years old. If you hadn't spurned every suitable young man we've introduced you to, this wouldn't be necessary."
The finality in her mother's voice is a death knell. There is no arguing, no pleading, no room for her own desires. There is only obedience.
Something wild and desperate unfurls inside Catherine, something that has been coiled tight in her chest for years, waiting for just this moment. All those secret kisses in the gardens, all those midnight trysts with valets and footmen—it was never about them, was it? It was about the thrill of the forbidden, the taste of freedom, however small.
"Kitty, we need to know you'll be taken care of," Cornelius adds, his voice heavy with an affection that now feels suffocating. "We won't be here forever. Don't you want that? To have a husband, a family of your own?"
She wants a life. Her life. Not one scripted for her. Not one where she is merely the beautiful daughter of the Vances, the future wife of Alistair Beaumont. The mother of dull, insipid Beaumont children. The thought curdles in her stomach like sour milk.
She looks from her father's hangdog expression to her mother's cold one. There is no escape here. Not through words, not through tears, not through the tantrums that used to get her anything she wanted. They really intend to sell her off like a prize mare at auction. And Alistair Beaumont is the highest bidder.
"Kitty... say something," her father pleads, leaning forward. He reaches for her hand, but she pulls away before he can touch her.
"What would you like me to say, Daddy?" she asks, her voice dangerously soft. "Thank you? Thank you for trapping me in a loveless marriage with a man I detest? Thank you for ensuring my life will be an empty, meaningless parade of society events and charitable lunches? Shall I be grateful?"
Eleanor's spoon clatters against her saucer.
"That is quite enough, Catherine," she says, her tone glacial. "You will not speak to your father that way. This is your duty. To this family. To your future."
"I thought out of everyone, you would understand," Catherine whispers, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. She doesn't bother to wipe it away. Let them see. Let them see what they've done. "That my family would understand my heart. But it was never about my heart, was it? It's about my name. It's about the business."
"Kitty—" her father starts, his voice cracking, but Eleanor holds up a single, manicured hand, silencing him instantly.
"Go to your room," Eleanor commands. "We will discuss this further in the morning. Perhaps with a cooler head."
Catherine rises, her chair scraping against the floor. She doesn't look at either of them. She just turns and walks away, her heels clicking like a metronome counting down the seconds of her life. Each step is heavy, weighted with the future they've chosen for her.
Her room is a cage of silk and velvet, a prison decorated with everything a girl could want. Dresses worth more than a common man's yearly wages hang in the closet. Jewels glitter in their cases on her vanity. But none of it means anything. Not anymore. She throws herself onto her four-poster bed, burying her face in the mountain of down pillows, and lets the sobs that have been building in her chest finally break free. She cries until her throat is raw and her eyes burn, until the tears have soaked the delicate lace trim of her pillowcase.
Then, the grief hardens into something else. Something hot and sharp and unfamiliar. Rage. It's a feeling she's only ever flirted with before, in petulant fits of temper when a dress didn't fit right or a party was dull. This is different. This is a fire in her belly, a wild, untamed thing that wants to burn the whole world down. Her world, at least.
She sits up, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The mirror on her vanity reflects a stranger: a woman with tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that hold a dangerous glint.
Wouldn't they be mighty sorry if she just... disappeared? If they woke up tomorrow morning and she was simply gone? She pictures her father's panicked face, her mother's carefully constructed composure finally shattering. They would deserve it.
The plan forms with a sudden, shocking clarity. It's reckless, foolish, and utterly brilliant.
She goes to her closet, her hands moving with a new, determined purpose. She fumbles past rows of delicate pastels and soft silks, her fingers finding the biggest suitcase she owns. She doesn't pack carefully. She shoves clothes in haphazardly: evening gowns, sensible day dresses, lingerie, shoes. She doesn't know what she'll need, only that she needs to be gone.
She finds her jewelry box, a heavy, ornate thing her father gave her for her sixteenth birthday. Inside, nestled in velvet, are ropes of pearls, diamond chokers, sapphire earrings... The combined worth could feed a family for a decade. She takes it, slipping it into her suitcase. Lipsticks, kohls, powders, perfumes are all thrown in next. Then, she slips on a coat over her evening dress and peeks out into the hallway.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes midnight. Catherine pauses, her hand on the doorknob, and listens. Nothing. Not even the creak of a floorboard. Her parents, confident in their victory, are asleep in their rooms, dreaming of society weddings and corporate mergers.
She doesn't look back. Not at the portrait of her as a child, not at the familiar landscape of her life. She just walks, her suitcase thumping softly against her leg, down the grand staircase and through the silent, echoing mansion. She leaves through the kitchen door, the one the servants use, stepping out into the cool night air.
The night smells of damp earth and cut grass from the meticulously kept grounds. For a moment, she's disoriented, a princess who has never been outside the castle walls after dark. But then she spots the path that leads to the service gate, the one the gardeners use. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a frantic, wild drumbeat. This is it. The point of no return.
The heavy iron gate groans as she pushes it open. The sound is so loud in the quiet that she flinches, certain she's woken the entire household. But the house remains dark and silent.
She runs down the long, winding driveway, her suitcase bouncing awkwardly against her hip, her expensive heels sinking into the soft dirt. When she reaches the main road, she stops, panting, and looks back. The Vance estate rises up behind her, a dark, monstrous shape against the starry sky. For a fleeting moment, a pang of something like homesickness twists in her gut. But it's quickly replaced by a surge of triumph. She's free.
But freedom, she quickly discovers, is cold and lonely and she has no idea where to go. She starts walking, her heels clicking on the asphalt, heading in the general direction of the city center.
She has been to the city many times, of course, for shopping and luncheons and gallery openings. But always in a chauffeur-driven car, always with an escort. She's never had to think about where she is going, or where she will sleep, or how she will get there.
Tall buildings rise up on either side of her, light spilling from hotel windows and the neon signs of all-night diners. She looks at the street signs, trying to get her bearings.
Ah-ha! Fifth and Main. That’s where that hotel is. The Grand. Her mother always complains about the people that stays there.
She'll go there. She'll get a room, take a hot bath, and think about what to do next in the morning. She has enough pocket money to last a few weeks, if she's careful. And then there's the jewelry. She could probably pawn a pearl necklace or two and live like a queen for months.
She walks faster, her suitcase thumping against her leg.
The doorman at The Grand gives her a long, curious look as she approaches. She's used to being stared at, but not like this. He's not admiring her expensive dress or her flawless features. He's looking at her with suspicion, taking in the heavy suitcase, the state of her hair, the smear of mascara on her cheek. She straightens up, pulling on the mask of the Vance heiress she knows so well.
"I'd like a room, please," she says, her voice cool and clipped.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "The hotel is fully booked for the evening, miss."
That's a bold-faced lie if she's ever heard one. The Grand is big enough to house a small army. She knows this because her family has booked out entire floors for parties before.
As if to prove her point, a sleek black car glides to a stop at the curb. A man in a sharp suit gets out, and the doorman rushes to open the door for him, all deference and smiles.
"Fully booked, huh?" Catherine murmurs, her jaw tightening.
"Look, lady," the doorman says, turning back to her, his patience wearing thin. "This isn't the place for you. Tell your john to take you somewhere else. Why don't you try the motel down the street? The one with the hourly rates."
Humiliation, hot and sharp, floods her cheeks. He thinks she's a prostitute. The thought is so absurd, so insulting, that a strange, hysterical laugh bubbles up in her throat.
"You have no idea who I am," she says, her voice dangerously low.
"You can be the Queen of Sheba for all I care. You're not getting a room here. Now beat it before I call the coppers."
"Do it," she challenges, her chin jutting out defiantly. "Go on. Call them. I'm sure my father would be fascinated to hear how The Grand treats the daughter of—"
She stops herself. To say her father's name would be to give up her freedom before it's even truly begun. It would be to crawl back to the cage with her tail between her legs. She can't do that. She won't.
The doorman just smirks, a cruel, knowing twist of his lips. "That's what I thought. Now, get lost."
He grabs her arm, rougher than is necessary, his fingers digging into her skin. The sheer audacity of it, the violation, shocks her into silence for a moment. Then the anger returns, a tidal wave of it, and she wrenches her arm away.
"Don't touch me," she snarls, her blue eyes flashing.
They're drawing attention now. A couple emerging from the hotel stares at them openly. The man in the sharp suit, who was about to enter, pauses by the door.
"Mr. Corvino! Welcome back, sir!" the doorman stammers, instantly releasing Catherine to bow and scrape at the other man. "My apologies for the disturbance."
Catherine's gaze locks with the newcomer's. He has the most unusual eyes she's ever seen—a startling, vibrant red. And silver hair, cut sharp and fashionable, gleaming under the hotel's bright lights. His suit is Venetian wool, the kind her father orders from Italy. He reeks of money, but not the old, comfortable kind of her family. This is new, aggressive money. The kind her mother would sniff at.
Mr. Corvino doesn't acknowledge the doorman. His crimson eyes are fixed on her, taking in her disheveled state, the expensive clothes, the defiance in her posture. He takes a long drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing brightly in the darkness before he exhales a plume of smoke that curls around his head like a crown.
"Care to explain why you're fondling my girl?" he asks the doorman, his voice a low, smooth purr. The kind a big cat might make.
Catherine positively flinches. His girl? Before she can protest, he's at her side, slinging a casual arm around her shoulders. His cologne is a heady mix of sandalwood and expensive whiskey, and the scent of it makes her dizzy.
The doorman pales, his bluster evaporating instantly. "I—I'm sorry, Mr. Corvino. I had no idea she was with you. She was causing a scene..."
"I was not!" Catherine sputters, trying to shrug out from under his arm, but it' s like trying to move a marble statue. He's all lean muscle coiled beneath that expensive suit. "And I'm certainly not—"
"Hush now, darling," he murmurs, twisting her around until her face is buried in the fine wool of his lapel. His breath is warm against her ear. "Play along, unless you'd prefer to spend the night in a cell."
She's going to claw those strange, beautiful red eyes right out of his skull! But the thought of a police cell, of her name being dragged through the mud, of her father getting a call...
She forces herself to still, to become a pliant doll in his arms. She can hear the doorman stammering an apology, can feel the weight of the couple's stares. She has never been so humiliated.
"There's a good girl," Mr. Corvino says, his voice a low rumble in her ear. He steers her past the gawking doorman and into the opulent lobby of The Grand.
The lobby is a symphony of polished marble, gleaming brass, and cascading crystal. The air is thick with the cloying scent of flowers and hushed conversations. It's a world she knows, a world she was born into.
Once she's inside, Catherine jerks away from him, stumbling back a few steps. She glares at him, her blue eyes burning with a fury she can barely contain.
"How dare you," she seethes, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and shock. "How dare you touch me. And lie. I'm not your... your anything."
Mr. Corvino just looks at her, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his handsome face.
"Would you have preferred I let that gorilla drag you off to jail?" he asks, his voice an amused drawl. "Believe me, kitten, the cells downtown aren't nearly as comfortable as a suite at The Grand."
Catherine opens her mouth to argue, then closes it. He has a point, and she hates him for it. She hates him for seeing her at her most pathetic, for taking control of the situation with such infuriating ease, for calling her 'kitten' in that condescending tone that makes her skin tingle in a way she doesn't want to examine too closely.
"I didn't need your help," she lies, lifting her chin. "I had it under control."
He lets out a short, harsh laugh. "Right. Looked that way from where I was standing. Most people would just say thank you."
"Thank you? For grabbing me? For lying? That man thinks I'm a—a lady of the evening because of you!"
"He thought you were a lady of the evening because you showed up at The Grand at two in the morning with a suitcase full of god knows what, looking like you just lost a fight with a particularly vicious cat."
Catherine touches her hair self-consciously. Her perfect finger waves are likely a mess from her panicked escape, and she's all too aware of the mascara tracks on her cheeks. The thought is mortifying. She's always been pristine, always polished. She looks around the opulent lobby for a reflective surface, for something to check her appearance in. She finds it in the bronze sheen of a nearby elevator door.
"Oh heavens," she gasps, horrified.
Her reflection is a shock. A pale, wild-eyed girl with smudged makeup and tangled hair. Her dress is creased and dusty from the road. She looks... cheap. No wonder the doorman mistook her for what he did. For the second time that night, hot tears of humiliation prick at her eyes. She will not cry. She will not give this... this man the satisfaction.
"Here."
He holds out a crisp, white linen handkerchief. It's monogrammed with a simple 'S.C.' in elegant, black thread. She snatches it from him, the fine fabric a small comfort. She dabs at her cheeks, trying to salvage some of her dignity. The scent of him is on the fabric—that same heady mix of sandalwood and whiskey.
"Come on," he says, nodding toward the reception desk. "Let's get you a room."
Her head snaps up. "I don't—"
"Don't push your luck, darling," he cuts her off, his red eyes glinting with a warning. "The only reason I got you in here is because you're pretty and you looked like a bit of trouble, which I happen to enjoy. But my charity only extends so far. And my patience? Even less."
He turns and walks toward the desk, leaving her with no choice but to follow or be stranded again. She trails after him, her suitcase bumping against the polished marble floor, the sound echoing in the vast, quiet space.
The clerk behind the desk, a young man with a slicked-back hair and a superior attitude, glances up at them. His dismissive expression immediately morphs into one of sycophantic delight when he recognizes her unwanted escort.
"Mr. Corvino! A pleasure as always, sir." The clerk's smile is a watt too bright. "How can I help you tonight?"
"Let her get whatever suite she wants," Mr. Corvino says, gesturing vaguely in Catherine's direction with his cigarette. "Put it on my tab. And I want the key to the Penthouse."
The clerk's eyes widen slightly. "Of course, sir. Right away."
Catherine bristles.
"I have my own money," she says, her voice tight. She starts digging in her beaded purse for her wallet, her movements stiff and angry.
"Don't be tedious," he says without even looking at her. "It's done."
The clerk slides a registration book and a pen across the counter. Catherine stares at it, then at the man standing beside her. She doesn't know his name, only that the staff at this hotel is terrified of him. She's never had to pay for her own room before—her father's credit had always been enough—but the thought of being indebted to this stranger, this Mr. Corvino, is galling.
"The Presidential Suite, then," she says, her chin jutting out. It's one of the most expensive rooms in the hotel, a ridiculous, opulent affair with a private terrace and a view of the entire city. It's a petty, childish move, but she can't help herself. If he's going to insist on paying, he's going to pay dearly.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across Mr. Corvino's face. The kind that reaches those strange, crimson eyes. It transforms him, softening the hard lines of his face and making him look shockingly handsome. He looks at her as if he's genuinely delighted, which only infuriates her more.
"Presidential it is," he says to the clerk, who is now looking at Catherine with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
The clerk fumbles with a brass key attached to a heavy, ornate fob. "Right away, Mr. Corvino, miss."
While the clerk is busy with the paperwork, Mr. Corvino leans closer, his shoulder brushing against hers.
"A little piece of advice, darling," he murmurs. "When a man offers you an olive branch, don't try to set it on fire."
And with that, he strolls away. Catherine watches him go, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He doesn't look back. He just walks with an easy, confident stride toward a bank of elevators, where another employee rushes to press the button for him. The polished brass doors slide open and he steps inside, disappearing from view.
The clerk clears his throat, holding out the key and a small, leather-bound folio for her signature. Catherine's hands tremble slightly as she takes them. She hesitates, the pen hovering over the registration line. What name should she sign? Catherine Vance is a name that carries weight, a name that will send her father's men searching.
After chewing her bottom lip for a moment, she writes “Miss Kitty” in a looping, elegant scrawl. A little joke on herself, a little rebellion. A name that isn't hers, but isn't a complete lie, either. A name she can hide behind.
"Your luggage will be sent up right away, Miss Kitty," the clerk says, his tone a mixture of subservience and curiosity.
She turns her nose up at him, channeling her mother, and glides toward the same bank of elevators. The ride up is a silent, velvet-lined ascent. The elevator operator, a young man in a crisp uniform, doesn't dare make eye contact. She imagines the whispers already flying through the staff corridors. The girl who came in with Mr. Corvino. The one who got the Presidential Suite.
Ha! If they only knew who she was. If they only knew her father could buy this entire hotel with the spare change in his pocket. Mr. Corvino might be able to scare the staff, but her father could scare the owner.
The doors slide open on the top floor, revealing a small, private foyer. The air is hushed, smelling of lemon polish and roses. A single door stands at the end of a short hallway, and it swings open before she even reaches it. A bellman stands waiting, his posture stiff and formal.
"Miss Kitty," he says with a slight bow, taking her small clutch purse from her. "May I show you to the suite?"
She follows him inside, unimpressed by the grandeur around her. Her own bedroom at home is bigger than this whole floor, probably. The Presidential Suite is all gilded cornices, brocade wallpaper, and a cavernous living room with French doors that open onto a wide terrace overlooking the glittering expanse of Linkon City. In the center of the room, on a plush silk divan, sits her suitcase. The one she had packed in such a frantic hurry. It looks shabby and out of place.
"Will there be anything else, miss?" the bellman asks.
"No. That will be all."
She holds out her hand, and he places the key fob in her palm. He bows again and retreats, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft, final click.
The moment she is alone, Catherine defleats like a pricked balloon. The adrenaline that has carried her this far recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a rising tide of panic. She kicks off her heels, the leather skittering across the polished parquet floor. The relief is immediate, her feet throbbing with a dull, persistent pain.
She pads across the room, the silk of her dress whispering against her legs, and she drags herself toward the bathroom. She needs a bath. She needs to wash off the night—the humiliation, the fear, the grit of the road, the memory of that man's hands on her arm. She needs to feel clean again.
The bathroom is a marvel of white and gold marble, a clawfoot tub big enough for three, its faucets shaped like swans. She turns the taps, the roar of the water filling the cavernous room, drowning out the thoughts circling her mind. While the tub fills, she looks at her reflection in the mirror over the vanity. Miss Kitty. Not Catherine Vance, the heiress. Not Catherine, the disappointing daughter. Just Miss Kitty, a runaway with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of foolish dreams.
She peels off the ruined evening gown, letting it pool at her feet. The dirt will never come out of the silk. She'll have to go shopping in the morning. The thought is a small, bright spot in the overwhelming darkness. Shopping is something she understands. Something she's good at.
She unpins her hair, the metal pins clicking against the marble counter as she drops them. The careful waves fall into a tangled mess above her shoulders. She slips out of her silk stockings and her undergarments, a pile of discarded finery on the pristine white floor. She is completely naked, a pale, slender doll in a world that is suddenly too big, too dangerous, too real. She sinks into the hot water, the steam rising around her in a fragrant cloud, and leans her head back against the cool marble of the tub. The heat seeps into her bones, easing the ache in her muscles and loosening the knot of fear in her stomach. She closes her eyes and tries to think of nothing.
But her mind refuses to be quiet. It plays back the scene at the door, the doorman's sneer, the humiliation. Then it replays her dinner with her parents, her father's pained expression, her mother's cold satisfaction. But most of all, it replays the moment in the lobby, when a strange man with red eyes and silver hair had put an arm around her and called her 'his girl.'
The memory is a confusing tangle of emotions. Anger at his audacity, yes. A profound sense of indignation. But there is something else, too. A thrill. A jolt of electricity that had shot through her at his touch, at the low, dangerous purr of his voice. He had been the one person in that entire hotel who hadn't looked at her with pity or contempt. He had looked at her with... interest. Amusement. And something else she couldn't quite name, something dark and intoxicating.
She opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling, the intricate plasterwork a blur above her. She is in over her head. She knows that. She is a child playing in a world of sharks. But for the first time in her life, she feels... alive. Really, truly alive. The fear is still there, a cold knot in her gut, but it's mixed with a wild, exhilarating freedom. She is Catherine Vance no more. She is Miss Kitty. And Miss Kitty does not cry. Miss Kitty does not run home to her daddy. Miss Kitty handles things.