The Masquerade

The mask weighs nothing, but it changes everything.

I adjust the delicate gold filigree against my cheekbones, watching my reflection in the powder room mirror. The woman staring back at me is someone I barely recognize—dark eyes rimmed with kohl, crimson lips, bare shoulders rising from a gown of midnight silk that cost more than my first car.

Tonight, I'm not Naomi West, senior fashion editor at Luxe magazine. Tonight, I'm whoever I choose to be.

The Ashford Foundation's annual masquerade is the most exclusive event of the season. Five thousand dollars a plate, and the guest list reads like a who's who of Manhattan's elite. I'm here on assignment—covering the fashion, the philanthropy, the carefully curated spectacle of wealth doing good. But as I smooth the silk against my hips and take a steadying breath, I feel something else entirely.

Freedom.

Behind this mask, no one knows about my failed engagement. No one knows I've spent the past two years rebuilding my career and my confidence after Marcus shattered both. No one knows that beneath the polished exterior, I'm still learning how to trust again.

The ballroom is a cathedral of candlelight and champagne. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic shadows across marble floors, and everywhere I look, masked faces turn to assess, to judge, to desire. The anonymity is intoxicating. For one night, we're all strangers playing at being someone else.

I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and drift toward the edge of the dance floor, observing. That's what I do best—watch, analyze, translate beauty into words that make readers feel something they can't quite name.

But tonight, someone is watching me.

I feel it before I see him. A prickle at the back of my neck, the unmistakable weight of attention. I turn slowly, scanning the crowd, and my gaze catches on a figure standing in the shadows near the east colonnade.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A black mask covers the upper half of his face, leaving only a strong jaw and a mouth that curves with knowing amusement as our eyes meet. He's wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo—not rented, I can tell from the way it moves with him—and he holds a tumbler of something amber with the casual confidence of a man who owns the room.

He doesn't look away. Neither do I.

The moment stretches, suspended in the glittering air between us. Then he inclines his head—not a bow, not quite, but an acknowledgment—and begins to move through the crowd toward me.

My heart stutters. I should turn away. Should find a colleague to hide behind, a conversation to join. Instead, I stand frozen, watching him approach with the measured grace of a predator who knows his prey isn't going anywhere.

"You're not dancing." His voice is low, rough-edged, and something about it tugs at the edges of my memory. Do I know h...