The first thing Ambrose Lysander learned about running a brothel was that numbers didn't lie.
Unlike people.
The ink-stained ledger before him held no secrets, no charm, no deception. Only cold, unfeeling truth. It didn't matter how well a courtesan smiled, how sweetly a client whispered their promises, or how beautifully a debt was wrapped in flowery words. In the end, it all came down to what was paid and what was owed.
That was what kept Ambrose safe.
At thirteen, he had nothing but the clothes on his back and the burned memory of his family estate collapsing in flames. The rain had come too late, nothing more than a mockery of salvation.
He had watched from the trees, his fingers digging into wet soil, lungs filled with the acrid stench of charred wood and flesh. His mother had ordered a servant to take him away, but the coward had abandoned him the moment they reached the outskirts. Too afraid, too selfish to stay.
By the time Madame Sorella found him, he had been just another half-starved street rat, caked in soot and reeking of loss. She had eyed him like one might assess a broken trinket at the bottom of a jewelry box. Intriguing, but of questionable worth.
"You're too pretty for a street rat, but too bitter for a whore. What can you do?"
"I can count," he had answered.
She hummed, considering, before running a gloved finger beneath his grime-covered chin. "Then you'll be Ambrose Lysander." She didn't ask his real name. She never would.
Later, he would learn the name came from a poet she once loved. A man who made beautiful promises but left her with nothing but old verses and an empty purse. Perhaps it was meant as a joke, or a cruel reminder. Perhaps it was simply because he looked like someone she once wanted to keep.
Either way, he took the name and made it his own.
And that was how Ambrose Lysander became the bookkeeper of one of the most exclusive pleasure houses in the city.
. . .
At first, most of the courtesans only regarded him with mild curiosity. A new face, young and unassuming, tucked away in the back office with his ledgers and ink-stained fingers. But curiosity in a place like this was as natural as breathing.
Ambrose wasn't like the usual men who wandered these halls. Clients who sought comfort, power-hungry officials looking for an escape, or the occasional desperate fool who fell too hard for a carefully constructed fantasy. He was sharp-eyed, quiet, and far too composed for someone so young. He kept his head down, his work meticulous, and his presence unobtrusive.
And that, of course, only made them more intrigued.
Some approached him directly… leaning too close, testing the waters with lingering touches and teasing words.
Others watched from a distance, amused by the way he sidestepped flirtations with cool indifference.
Ambrose never scowled, never lashed out, but he was impossible to catch off guard. He deflected effortlessly, whether with a dry remark or a polite but final shift of conversation.
Madam Sorella observed all of this with a knowing smile.
She did not shield him from their interest, nor did she warn them away. Instead, she let him learn. Let him navigate the delicate game of proximity and intent. And when he struggled, she would step in. Not as a savior, but as a teacher.
"Charm is a weapon, Lysander, but so is restraint. Know when to yield, and know when to let them chase."
There were times when she would close her eyes, letting him learn through trial and error. He was young, and young men made mistakes.
But he was always by her side, trailing after her like a shadow, absorbing everything. The way she commanded a room, the way she handled negotiations, the way she chose when to be merciful and when to be ruthless.
He had a mind for numbers, yes. But here, in this world, numbers were only one part of the equation.
And Ambrose Lysander was learning quickly.
. . .
Ambrose had no interest in the affairs of the flesh. But he watched.
Every night, the world unraveled before him in silk and sighs.
He saw noblemen enter as lords and leave as beggars. He saw women who sold love but never gave it away. He watched men destroy their fortunes in a single evening, chasing pleasure like it was salvation.
He understood, quickly, that the most powerful people weren't the ones with money or titles.
It was the ones who knew how to control desire.
"Never let them see what you want, Ambrose." Madame Sorella had told him once, as she adjusted her earrings in the reflection of his wide-eyed stare. "A man who has nothing to lose is dangerous, but a man who has nothing to gain is terrifying."
It was advice he took to heart.
And so, he learned to read between the flickering candlelight and whispered requests.
Most men came for pleasure, but sometimes, there were patrons who sought something else entirely. An empty room, no questions asked. At first, he thought little of it. Until he realized—not every man was with a woman.
Sometimes, it was a man with another man.
Other times, it was two women, lost in each other's arms.
It didn't shock him. Nothing in this house ever did.
. . .
"You'll need to learn, eventually." Madame Sorella had said one night, lazily running her fingers through his hair as he sat at her feet, a ledger in his lap. "It's one thing to know what people want. It's another to know what to do with it."
That was how it began. Not as desire, not as indulgence. As observation.
Another lesson.
Ambrose barely paid attention as he sat behind Madame Sorella that night.
His fingers idly twisted the lace of his sleeve, his mind elsewhere, as the girl beside him prattled on about the latest theater performance. He hummed at the right moments, enough to feign interest, but his thoughts drifted.
Then, a shadow loomed over him.
A man, older, perhaps in his thirties, stood before him, swaying slightly as if he had already indulged in too much wine. He reeked of perfume, the sickly kind that clung to the skin long after the night had ended. But beneath the artificial sweetness, Ambrose caught a trace of something far less refined. The underside of the man's nails was dark with grime, a stark contrast to the fine embroidery on his sleeves.
"Why do you look so morose, boy?" the man asked, tilting his head. His voice was thick with amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Interest.
Ambrose finally lifted his gaze, meeting the man's eyes for the first time.
Before he could respond, the girl beside him leaned in, her laughter bright and effortless.
"Oh, don't mind him," she purred, trailing her fingers along the man's wrist.
"Surely, I'm far more interesting company than a boy with his head in the clouds."
"Really? Then let's talk a bit more," the man followed the girl without a backward glance.
Ambrose sighed.
He had seen enough. What more could there be? He could feign gasps and moans without ever indulging in the act.
. . .
It was nearing closing time when another figure approached Ambrose. He had been idly watching the flickering candlelight against crystal glasses, fingers resting against the polished wood of the table. He expected another perfume-drenched lord, another nobleman flushed with wine and arrogance.
But when he looked up, the person standing before him was… different.
Not in appearance. He dressed just like everyone else that visit. Fabrics nice enough without being overly outstanding. Dark gloves still on their hands as if they had only just arrived.
But their eyes. Sharp. Amused. Studying him.
The man stood before him, his presence cutting through the haze of earlyhour and candlelight. He was not adorned in finery brooch, nor did he wear the smug confidence of a nobleman accustomed to getting what he wanted. And yet, Ambrose looked.
Dark eyes met his—steady, unwavering. No smirk, no flourish, no unnecessary words. Just a gaze that felt like a question and an answer all at once.
Ambrose straightened instinctively.
"Madame Sorella," the person spoke smoothly. "I'd like a moment with your bookkeeper."
Madame Sorella, ever unreadable, lifted a brow. She leaned forward just slightly, as if weighing the request in her mind.
"And what would you ask of him?"
The stranger didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to Ambrose, gaze never wavering, and asked, "Do you know what it is that you lack?"
Ambrose blinked.
It was not the kind of question people asked him. Most either ignored him or tried to lure him into their world with empty flattery and silk-threaded lies.
But this… felt different.
Madame Sorella exhaled, tilting her head as if already expecting the answer.
Then, with a careless flick of her wrist, she ordered, "Go on, Ambrose. Let them teach you something new."
. . .
Ambrose walked ahead.
The stranger's presence trailing behind him like an unspoken thought. He had done this before—led countless patrons through these halls, opened doors for them to their designated girl, watched them shed their masks in the dim candlelight.
And yet, as he guided this man forward, a strange feeling coiled in his chest. Not anxiety. Not dread.
Curiosity.
He pushed the thought aside as he reached an available room, stepping aside to let the man enter first. The stranger did not hesitate, nor did he glance around with the idle appraisal of a first-time visitor.
Instead, he moved with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to unfamiliar places, sinking into the wide chair like it had been waiting for him all along.
Ambrose struck a match, lighting the nearest candle. The flame flickered, casting long shadows against the walls.
He worked in silence, letting the ritual settle between them. But even as the warm glow filled the space, the air remained too still. A silence that felt deliberate, measured.
When he finally turned, he found the man watching him.
Not with hunger. Not with lust.
Just… watching.
The silence stretched, unbroken.
Most patrons filled the air with pleasantries, coaxing conversation with flattery or demand. But this one? He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, letting the quiet speak for him.
Ambrose was the first to break it. A habit, not a weakness.
"How may I call you, my lord?" His voice was smooth, polite. Offering a name would be a courtesy, after all.
A slow smile touched the man's lips. Not a smirk. Not arrogance. Just amusement, flickering like candlelight.
"Whatever you want."
Ambrose tilted his head. Not quite an answer. Not quite a refusal.
It put him in a predicament, one he was unfamiliar with.
Naming a man was an act of power, after all. And yet, the stranger gave no indication of impatience, no pressing desire to fill the silence between them.
Ambrose considered him for a moment. The dark gloves, still in place. The ease in which he sat, neither expectant nor restless. The steady weight of his gaze, neither devouring nor dismissive.
Strange man.
Most sought something when they came here. Pleasure. Escape. Comfort. Even those who wanted nothing still wanted something. A game, a thrill, a moment to forget themselves.
But this one…
He was letting Ambrose decide.
Ambrose almost laughed. A rare sort of patron indeed.
Fine, then. If the man had no intentions of leading, Ambrose would take the reins himself. He stepped forward, letting the air between them grow taut with purpose.
"Then let's begin, Mr. Gloves."
the man, Mr. Gloves, just smiles, like he finds the whole thing amusing. Like he expected nothing less from Ambrose.
.
.
.
.