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It begins with a mirror that Josephine does not trust.
It is a terrible mirror - hotel lighting, too warped, too yellow - but she pauses anyway, fingers resting lightly against the marble sink. There is nothing wrong. Not really. She looks as she always has: composed, deliberate, constructed.
And yet.
“Forty,” she says aloud, as if the word might sound different outside her head.
It doesn’t.
Behind her, the suite is immaculate. Champagne on ice. A dress laid out - black, elegant, chosen to charm, to command attention. She has a mark picked out already for tonight.
Wealthy, bored, predictable.
Or perhaps not?
It escalates when the mark does not look at her.
Not properly.
Josephine notices it at once. Of course she does. She has built an entire life on noticing the precise moment a gaze lingers, sharpens, softens into interest. It is a language she speaks fluently - has always spoken fluently.
Tonight, the language fails.
He ought to be predictable in the way all men like him are predictable. He is precisely the kind of man who should respond to her - who always has. She gives him everything: the glance, the half-smile, the careful calibration of warmth and distance.
He nods. Polite. Distracted.
Looks past her shoulder.
Josephine adjusts. Refines. Tries again.
Nothing.
He excuses himself within ten minutes.
Josephine stands very still for a moment, champagne untouched in her hand, and feels something unfamiliar settle beneath her ribs.
Not anger.
Not even embarrassment.
Something quieter. Colder.
Ah.
Penny finds her later, in the villa salon, still in silk, still immaculate, staring at nothing in particular.
“Well?” Penny says, dropping onto the sofa with all the grace of a falling object. “Did you take his money before or after he begged you to marry him?”
Josephine doesn’t look at her. “Neither.”
Penny blinks. “Neither?”
“He was uninterested.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, Penny sits up. “Uninterested?” she repeats, like she’s testing the word for structural integrity.
“Yes.”
“In you?”
Josephine turns her head just enough to fix her with a look. “Do try to keep up.”
Penny stares at her for a long moment. Then - very carefully - "Could he definitely…see you?”
Josephine exhales, long and thin. “Of course he could. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Right, because that’s the only explanation I’ve got,” Penny says. “You walk into a room and men usually forget their own names.”
“Not tonight.”
“Well, that’s rude of him.”
Josephine says nothing.
Penny watches her, something sharper creeping into her expression. “Oh,” she says, softer now. “Oh, you’re actually bothered.”
Josephine lifts her glass, considers it, sets it back down untouched. “It is…inefficient. For my work.”
“Yeah. Inefficient. You’re spiralling.”
Josephine finally looks at her properly. There is something cool and measured in her gaze, but beneath it - just visible - something else.
“I am turning forty,” she says.
Penny waits.
“And while I have never been foolish enough to believe that my success rests solely on appearance,” Josephine continues, precise, controlled, “it would be equally foolish to pretend it has not been...advantageous.”
Penny snorts. “You mean being hot helps.”
Josephine closes her eyes briefly. “If you insist on phrasing it like that.”
“And now you think it’s going away?”
“I think,” Josephine says carefully, “that men are shallow. The kind I prefer to target, in particular. Their attention is a resource. If that resource becomes less accessible - ”
“You adapt,” Penny cuts in.
Josephine’s mouth tightens. “Obviously.”
“But you’re annoyed you have to.”
“I am annoyed,” Josephine says coolly, “that I may have to expend additional effort for the same result.”
Penny grins. “Welcome to my entire life.”
Josephine arches a brow.
“Seriously,” Penny continues, gesturing at herself. “I have never had the whole…mysterious, elegant, men-fall-over-themselves thing going on. Loud. Overweight. Kinda scruffy.” She shrugs. “And look how well you taught me to rob people.”
Josephine watches her, expression unreadable.
“You literally built your whole system on the idea that attractiveness only gets you so far,” Penny adds. “After that, it’s about control. Information. Pressure. You know - everything you’re terrifyingly good at.”
Josephine exhales, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Yes.”
“So maybe don’t have a crisis because one idiot didn’t want to sleep with you.”
“I am not having a crisis.”
“You are absolutely having a crisis.”
Josephine opens her mouth to argue.
Stops.
“…a minor recalibration,” she concedes.
Penny beams, “There it is.”
A beat.
Then Penny’s expression shifts - brightening with something suspiciously like mischief.
“Oh,” she says. “I know what you need.”
Josephine narrows her eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You need external validation from someone who is immune to your nonsense.”
“I am not engaging with this.”
Penny is already reaching for her phone.
“Penny - ”
“Relax,” Penny says, typing quickly. “I’m sending for reinforcements.”
Josephine goes very still. “…What have you done?”
Penny grins, unrepentant. “You’re welcome.”
Brigitte arrives in under fifteen minutes.
She doesn’t announce herself - she steps inside as confidently as if it is her own home, the cold following her in. Her hair is slightly disordered from the wind, her expression sharp, scanning.
“Où est la crise?”
Penny points immediately at Josephine, with no attempt at subtlety. “I've no idea what you just said, but the problem is there.”
Josephine does not rise. “This was unnecessary.”
Brigitte ignores that. She takes her in - silk, immaculate posture, the faint tension at the mouth most people would miss.
“…You look fine,” she says, after a moment.
“I am aware I am not visibly unwell,” Josephine replies coolly. “That is not the issue.”
Penny leans forward, delighted. “She got ignored.”
Brigitte’s brows lift. “Ignored?”
“Completely. Ten minutes. Didn’t even try to sell his own grandmother for a chance with her.”
Brigitte considers this, then shrugs out of her coat and drapes it over a chair.
“Well,” she says, practical as ever, “that sounds like a failure of imagination on his part.”
Josephine exhales, some of the tension easing despite herself. “That is not the point.”
“No,” Brigitte agrees mildly, stepping further into the room. “The point is that you have built a career on understanding people. Not on being looked at.”
“It has been…helpful.”
“Of course. Beauty opens doors,” Brigitte says. “But you don’t need doors opened for you. You pick the lock. Or you find a window. Or you persuade the man inside that it was always your house.”
Penny beams. “See? This is why I called her.”
Brigitte flicks her a glance. “You could have summarised. I was at work.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Josephine watches Brigitte, something intent settling behind her gaze. “Men are shallow,” she says, quieter. “The kind I prefer to target, particularly. They respond to youth. To…simplicity.”
Brigitte snorts softly. “Yes. Tragically, the easiest men to rob do prefer someone simpering and nineteen.” A small, dismissive tilt of her hand. “C’est la vie.”
“And if I become less…desirable to them?”
“Then you adapt,” Brigitte says simply. “Which you already do. Constantly. You change accents, histories, entire personalities on a whim. You think this is the one variable you cannot manage?”
A pause.
Josephine studies her, properly this time. There is no performance in Brigitte’s expression - just that steady, infuriating certainty.
“…No,” Josephine says at last, quieter still, conceding the point. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
Penny looks between them, increasingly impatient. “Right, amazing, growth, love that for you, but can we also acknowledge she is still objectively hot and that you, ” she points at Brigitte -
“Penny,” Josephine cuts in.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“You are being exhausting.”
“I am being right.”
Josephine ignores that entirely, her attention fixed once again on Brigitte.
“You’re certain,” she says, softer now, “that it makes no difference?”
“To your work?” Brigitte shrugs. “None worth losing sleep over." A beat. Then, dry as ever: “To your ego, perhaps. But that is a separate issue, non?”
Josephine’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. She believes her. That is the irritating part. It should settle the matter.
It doesn’t.
Penny makes a strangled sound. She points between them. “You two are exhausting. Figure it out.”
Brigitte smiles faintly. “We manage.”
“Do you?” Penny shoots back as she pushes herself to her feet. “You know what? Fine. Spiral. Age. Become a mysterious recluse. Don’t address the actual issue. I’m going upstairs. Text me when one of you admits something useful.”
She pauses in the doorway, turns back, eyes sharp.
“For the record? This is not about some random guy not wanting you. It’s about the one person whose opinion you actually care about.”
Josephine’s expression does not change.
Penny grins, feral and satisfied. “Yeah. Thought so. And you’re not old,” she adds, already turning away. “You’re just being dramatic. And you,” she points accusingly at Brigitte again, “are enabling her.”
“Constantly,” Brigitte agrees.
And then Penny is gone.
Silence settles.
Brigitte exhales softly through her nose and glances at Josephine. “She is…a lot.”
Josephine smooths an imaginary crease in her sleeve. “She is direct.”
“Mm.” Brigitte studies her for a moment, head tilted. “So,” she says, lighter now. “What brought this on? And be honest - does it truly matter what one man thinks of you?”
Josephine’s gaze flicks up. “I believe that was made abundantly clear.”
“No,” Brigitte says, patient. “A man was an idiot. That is not new. So - why today?”
Josephine hesitates. It is brief, but real.
“I am turning forty,” she says finally, the words clipped and precise.
Brigitte hums. “Yes. I am aware.”
A beat.
“And?” she asks, lightly.
Josephine’s mouth tightens. “And while I am not so vain as to believe my success depends solely on appearance, I am not naïve enough to pretend it has not…contributed.”
“Of course it has,” Brigitte says. “You are extremely beautiful. It would be inefficient not to make use of that.”
Josephine exhales, almost a laugh. “Precisely. But it is a resource with a…diminishing return.”
A pause. Josephine looks away, then back again, something less composed in her expression now.
“And I find,” she continues, still precise but quieter than before, “that I am… reconsidering certain variables. Longevity. Efficacy. The sustainability of methods that rely, even in part, on… perception.”
Brigitte considers her, then leans back slightly against the table, arms folding loosely.
“I see.” A pause. “I am closer to fifty than I am to forty. How do you feel about that?”
Josephine looks at her.
Really looks.
The answer is immediate. Undisguised.
Desire, sharp and clear, cuts clean through whatever composure she had been maintaining.
There is nothing restrained about it. No performance.
Just want.
Brigitte’s smile is slow and knowing. “I thought so.”
Josephine recovers herself a fraction too late. “That is not - ”
“Oh, non,” Brigitte cuts in, amused. “Do not attempt to revise it now. You looked at me like you were about to make a very poor decision.”
Josephine lifts her chin. “I rarely make poor decisions.”
Brigitte huffs a laugh. “You make excellent bad decisions. That is half the problem. But we have addressed this - you get older, you adapt. I'm sure Penny told you the same."
She pushes off the table and steps closer, her tone shifting - not softer, exactly, but more deliberate.
"Alors...that is not what you need. Penny is right - for whatever reason, you seem to need me specifically to work on your ego, so let us do that, oui?"
Josephine bristles, but Brigitte does not give her the opportunity to voice her denial.
“You are beautiful,” she says, simply. “Objectively. That is not in question. But it is also the least interesting thing about you.”
Josephine’s brows lift, faintly. “How reassuring.”
“I am serious,” Brigitte continues. “Your mind, your instincts, the way you can walk into a room and know exactly where the pressure points are - ” she gestures lightly “ - that is what makes you dangerous. That is what makes you successful.”
A small pause.
“And,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “it is what makes you attractive.”
Josephine's posture straightens, just slightly.
Brigitte notices. Of course she does.
She steps closer again, closing the distance with easy confidence.
“You are clever,” she says. “Infuriatingly so. You are reckless when you are bored, which is often. You take unnecessary risks because you enjoy seeing if you can get away with them - which you usually can, and then I have to deal with your boasting.”
Josephine’s mouth twitches.
“You are arrogant,” Brigitte goes on, ticking it off like a list. “You have a temper you pretend not to have. The way you lie without hesitation. The way you move through a room like you own it,” she says. “You collect ridiculous personas like other people collect shoes, and they all cause me problems.” A soft huff of laughter. “The duchess. The art dealer. That truly dreadful heiress in Monaco -”
“She was convincing.”
“She was absurd.”
“She worked.”
“She caused me three days of paperwork.”
Josephine smiles, faint and pleased.
Brigitte shakes her head, but there’s warmth in it.
Familiar. Easy.
“You are - ” she tilts her head, considering “ - occasionally insufferable.”
Josephine huffs. “Occasionally?”
“Frequently,” Brigitte corrects.
She catches Josephine's eyes, needing Josephine to see the certainty. “And I like all of it,” she finishes simply.
Josephine exhales, quieter now. “Even the deeply annoying parts?” she asks.
“Especially those,” Brigitte replies, without hesitation. “They are…distinctive.”
Josephine studies her, something intent and searching in her gaze.
Brigitte meets it easily.
“You are beautiful,” she says again, more softly now. “Not just to look at. To watch. To listen to. To try, unsuccessfully, to keep up with.”
A flicker of something passes through Josephine’s expression - surprise, perhaps. Or something more dangerous.
Brigitte tilts her head, faintly amused. “Truly,” she adds. “If you continue to imply otherwise, I will be forced to conclude that I have very poor taste.”
Josephine huffs a quiet laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing, even as her composure slips entirely now.
“…You are being very generous.”
“No,” Brigitte says, easy, certain. “Just accurate.”
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Brigitte adds, almost as an afterthought, “If you are worried that you are becoming less compelling, I can reassure you.”
Josephine’s gaze sharpens. “Can you?”
Brigitte smiles, slow and unmistakably mischievous. “You remain extremely difficult to ignore.” She extends her hand. “On y va?”
Josephine glances at it.
Then back at her.
“I will be offended,” Brigitte says lightly, “if you continue this nonsense.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“Let me convince you.”
Josephine looks at her for a long moment.
And then, finally, she takes her hand.