As I stepped into the grand foyer, the marble seemed to glow too white, the gilded cherubs too polished. Banners of black and red hung from the balconies like silken restraints, binding the building into a new role. Wagner’s overture thundered through the gilded halls, a sonic weight that pressed the air as heavily as the perfume and cigar smoke.

I had dressed as carefully as I would have armed myself. My gown was deep emerald velvet, cut to glide against every curve, the slit running high enough to reveal the glimmer of black silk stockings with each deliberate step. The bodice was cinched with boning and brass hooks, disciplining my body into an hourglass silhouette both elegant and undeniable. A jeweled clasp at the shoulder caught the lamplight like a drop of fire.

Beneath the velvet, my weapons were softer but no less precise: sheer lingerie chosen to match the gown, garters fastened with polished clips that gleamed when I shifted. At my throat, a narrow chain of silver disappeared into the fabric, its pendant resting where no officer’s eye could follow — a gift from a handler, or perhaps a talisman against my own fragility.

My heels clicked on the parquet with the sharp authority of stilettos, though their lines were softened by satin. They elongated my stride, forced me into poise, turned each step into a gesture of dominance as much as seduction. My gloves, whisper-thin kid leather, held a champagne glass as easily as they might conceal a folded note or a sharpened pin.

German officers filled the boxes, their black uniforms gleaming beneath the chandeliers. They lounged in velvet seats, their boots stretched out, their hands idly stroking the bare shoulders of Parisian courtesans who leaned against them like prizes draped in silk. The women laughed too brightly, glasses of champagne trembling in manicured hands. Their eyes darted elsewhere — to each other, to the orchestra, to the doorways — anywhere but the men who pawed at them.

Paris had become a brothel, and the Opéra was her most expensive room.

I moved gracefully among them, emerald velvet trailing like a whisper, heels striking in deliberate rhythm. A soprano — that was my mask here. Sophia Brandt, celebrated, adored, imported by the Reich to sing their operas back to them. I was both ornament and weapon, a voice that could seduce while I listened, a smile that could open doors more swiftly than a lockpick.

From the stage, Wagner swelled, the violins screaming like a machine wound too tight. The audience cheered. In their triumph, they did not notice the shadow I slipped through the curtains, or the folded note passed to me in the guise of a bouquet, or the coded glance from the conductor whose bow dragged just a fraction too long on a single note.

Paris had become a brothel. But brothels have hidden doors, secret corridors, whispered names exchanged in darkness.

And while the Reich drank and gorged on her beauty, I walked those corridors, heels whispering, mask flawless, every breath another betrayal to come.