Vivienne followed Carmen for three nights.
She thought she was being subtle—soft boots, quiet corners, well-lit streets. She thought she was chasing a story.
Carmen let her believe it.
She didn't even change her routine.
She just let Vivienne watch—let her get closer and closer, until the line between stalking and seduction blurred like fog against glass.
On the fourth night, Carmen vanished mid-step into an alley.
Vivienne blinked.
Gone.
She spun around—Carmen was behind her.
Face calm.
Voice velvet.
"You should be careful," she said, stepping close. "There are worse things than stories out here."
Vivienne swallowed. Her pulse betrayed her.
"I'm not afraid of you."
Carmen leaned in, lips brushing her ear.
"You should be."
They had dinner.
Not by accident.
Carmen invited her to a quiet, hidden restaurant where no one asked names and the wine tasted like sin.
Vivienne asked about scars.
Carmen asked about childhood.
Vivienne asked about love.
Carmen asked, "What do you think dying feels like if you want it?"
Vivienne didn't answer.
But she was shaking.
Back at the flat, Julian was pacing.
When Carmen walked in, heels clicking, coat damp from rain and bloodless tension, he didn't look at her.
He just said:
"She's in love with you."
Carmen tossed her gloves onto the table. "No. She's in want. There's a difference."
Julian turned.
"There won't be after tonight."
That night, Vivienne followed Carmen again.
But this time, Carmen let her catch up.
They stood on a rooftop overlooking the Thames, fog rolling in like it wanted to swallow them both.
Vivienne spoke first.
"I know who you are."
Carmen didn't flinch.
"I know what you do," Vivienne said. "What you are."
Still no answer.
And then—"I want to understand," Vivienne whispered. "Let me understand."
Carmen turned.
And kissed her.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
A claim.
Vivienne melted. And Carmen tasted it all—fear, lust, need. That fragile edge between knowledge and destruction.
When they pulled apart, Carmen whispered:
"You're too close."
Vivienne's voice broke. "Then push me away."
"I don't do that," Carmen said.
And walked into the night.
Julian was waiting.
Not inside.
Not calm.
Outside. Smoking. Cold eyes.
"She's yours now?"
"No," Carmen said. "She's ours."
Julian stepped forward. Their bodies almost touching.
"I've shared knives. I've never shared with you."
Carmen smiled. Slow. Sharp.
"Maybe I want her to break."
Julian's voice dropped.
"Then let's break her together."