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The smell of charred flesh lingered in Violetta's nose long after Albert Pablo got dragged away by his own guards.
Pablo. The name tasted like ash in her mouth even after all these years. The man who thought he owned her because he paid for her body.
She exhaled, staring at the whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as she spun her glass.
James Moriarty — Owner, as she often called him — entered the UN Owen break room to join her, not to drink but to stare.
Stare at her scarless face.
"You doubted me," he said.
"I didn't."
"You were worried about retaliation. Same thing."
"Did you heal it because it was ugly?"
Violetta is not one for careless words; not one to spill her emotions out. But seeing Albert again made the bile rise in her stomach. She was happy when Ludger, then known to her as Moriarty, healed her scar, because it made her feel useful, but sometimes she wondered why he did it, and what he wanted from that.
"I'm sorry, Leader. That was… I didn't mean to—" she backtracked.
Ludger stood up, radiating intensity with the same unreadable, expressionless face he used when he burned Pablo and healed and burned and healed and burned—
The thought made Violetta shiver as Ludger stalked towards her.
He was standing directly in front of her now, his tall frame crowding hers against the bar. He tilted her chin towards him.
"Even now, you still think like a woman who's for sale."
She wanted to lash out. That wasn't true. It wasn't — she was a highly successful designer and business owner. She was the leader's second in command, leading the UN Owen Operations. She managed all of Royal Street's businesses.
And yet.
The words wouldn’t come. Not with that old, gnawing thought crawling to the surface. Just another asset to a man.
The scar on her face? Gone.
The scar inside? The one where she hid from everyone else, the one she kept together by lace and thread and brittle resolve? There.
Always there.
If she looked at the mirror, she would see — it never really left.
"I don't think that," she said. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, god no. Not when he gave her a house, her dreams, his trust.
She didn't want to bite the hand that fed her.
*
"Don't lie to me," he said, voice low. He could see it in her face. That doubt.
It infuriated him.
It wasn’t her, but what it meant. If he allowed the thought to fester, that one of his most trusted people, one of his commanders, doubted him, then what did that make him?
Weak.
Lesser.
Pathetic.
And he couldn't afford to be seen as that, couldn't let others see, or get close enough.
Because if they leaned in close enough, they might hear the voices inside his head saying the same thing they've been saying since he was young.
His back ached, and he almost flinched at the memory of iron pressing into his back.
"It was foolish of me," said Violetta, her eyes holding that steady defiance that he's come to respect as one of his people. "Forget I said it."
“I don’t speak thoughtlessly, Violetta. When I say this place is ours, it is not a hope. It is a fact. Or do you think I burn men alive for amusement?”
"Of course not," she said, voice steadier, her hand touching her face where the scar had been. “You don’t act thoughtlessly. I’ve always known that.”
“If all I saw in you was a scar to erase, I’d have discarded you the moment your skin healed.”
*
It had been years since Violetta cried.
Still, hearing those words from their leader, their commander, their savior who helped the slums thrive, she had to choke back a sob even as she tried to stand straighter.
He gripped her chin tightly. Not to hurt, but to make her understand him.
“Again, I apologize, Leader. I spoke out of turn.”
His response was immediate. “You spoke honestly. Don’t mistake that for a crime.”
Finally, he let go and stood back, looking at her with an unreadable expression.
"This is Royal Street. My territory. My rules. Anyone who leaves a mark on my people, on my lieutenants, on my businesses answers to me. I will protect you."
"As my commander?"
"As your commander."
He gave her a quick nod before turning to the door, but not without saying, "I healed your scar not because I needed you useful, but because that scar wasn't yours to bear."
But before he could leave, her hand shot out to grasp the back of his coat.
"Then who bears yours?"
That made him pause.
"I saw it without meaning to, during one of your fittings. The scar, no, the stigma."
He didn't answer, but his shoulders stiffened.
“You throw yourself in missions solo, believing that if you went in, no one else would get hurt. You entrust UN Owen to Hans and me, but delegating tasks isn't the same as sharing the burden."
She let go, and this time she walked ahead of him, her heels clicking against the polished floor once, maybe twice, before she faced him again.
"You healed my scar without asking if I wanted it. So don’t act like I need permission to share yours." She paused, considering her next words. "I ask this not as a woman you saved, but as one of your commanders.”
Ludger crossed his arms. "My commander? Or my equal?"
She spun around. "I wouldn't dare call myself your equal." And then, quieter. "Not yet."
He smirked, stepping beside her. "Too late, you already are. I can't let anyone bear the burden if I can't let them stand beside me and not behind me."
She exhaled, then cocked her head in mischief, the way the Owens had grown accustomed to. "Does that mean you'd let me use you as a model for House of Verdi?"
"Violetta."
"Or wear a waist corset for me, just once?" her eyes gleamed.
Ludger considered strangling her with her veil. "No."
"I'll settle for braiding your hair then."
He exhaled with a bone-deep 'Why do I bother with these people' type of exhaustion. And yet, despite his exasperation, he couldn't help his eyes softening.
"Only on special events," he said, walking out of there before she dragged him into something even worse.
Violetta stepped not behind him, or in front of him, but beside him, where she belonged. She was enumerating with her manicured fingers the special events she knew were coming up.
"The Theorn prom, graduation, the summer trip… does Theorn have a faculty summer outing? Should I make you a swimsuit…" she rattled off absentmindedly.
"Violetta," he said again in warning, putting his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
"Yes, Leader?"
He stopped. "Stop calling me Leader or Owner if you want to be my equal."
"What should I call you then, James Moriarty? Or… Heathcliff…? Since that's your given name?"
"Ludger."
"Just Ludger?"
"Yes."
Violetta glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "I like that name." She repeated it, tasting it on her tongue. It didn't taste like ashes.
He didn't tell her her pronunciation was completely incorrect. His mouth quirked in amusement.
"You do?"
"I do," she said. "It feels unscarred. It feels like yours."
That made him pause.
'Unscarred.' He didn't say it out loud, but the word lodged itself in his chest anyway.
They made their way down the hall to the war room, where the rest of UN Owen were already waiting. Sheridan probably already had bombs, Alex was most likely polishing his sword, Hans would be running away from becoming Bellaluna's new test subject, and Pantos and Arpa would be at the back of the room, quiet but alert — Arpa with child-like curiosity, and Pantos with his hunter's instinct.
It was probably overkill to have everyone retaliate against the Pablo family.
Which is why it was perfect.
Ludger and Violetta stopped in front of the wooden doors.
"Ready, Commander?"
"Ready, Ludger."
The corners of Ludger's mouth turned upward, not quite a smile, but almost.
"That's what I like to hear," he said, opening the doors as they crossed the threshold, side-by-side.