Mask

The Devil at War With Himself

Klaude Croft didn’t like losing control.

Control was his inheritance. His weapon. His armor.

It was what made people listen when he spoke, what made rivals fold in meetings, what made entire boardrooms bend to his will. Control wasn’t just second nature to him — it was survival.

But ever since that dinner… ever since that library… ever since her… it had been slipping through his fingers.

And he hated it.

The next morning, Olivia was gone.

She always left before the sun came up, like a phantom who only existed in the dark.

All she left behind was the faint trace of perfume clinging to his pillows and a lipstick stain bleeding against the rim of his glass.

Klaude sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, staring at the skyline beyond the wall of glass.

He should’ve felt satisfied. Olivia was uncomplicated. Olivia was safe. Safe in the sense that she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She didn’t expect anything more than what he could give — nights of fire and mornings of silence.

She was predictable. Contained.

And yet, even now, his thoughts weren’t on her.

They were on Anastasia.

The sound of her voice when she warned him. The way her eyes had burned with rage when she spat his name like it was venom. That contradiction of halo and hellfire that made him want to shake her until she shattered—or kiss her until she couldn’t speak.

She’s just a pawn, he told himself again.

But the lie was wearing thin.

That evening, he found himself at a charity gala he hadn’t even planned to attend.

A pointless event. A meaningless gathering of people in designer clothes, clinking champagne glasses as if their greed could be disguised as generosity.

He didn’t want to be there. He hated the hollow laughter, the fake compliments, the deals whispered under chandeliers.

But he knew she would be there.

And she was.

Anastasia didn’t just walk into a room.

She conquered it.

Every head turned as she entered the ballroom, her white off-shoulder gown cascading like liquid light, diamonds catching every gleam of the chandelier above. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist, exposing the delicate line of her neck — vulnerable and lethal all at once.

She wasn’t smiling. Not the way she usually did for the cameras.

Tonight her lips curved into something sharper. Controlled. Calculated.

Like she knew the effect she had, and she was weaponizing it.

Klaude’s jaw tightened as he watched her glide across the marble, every inch the untouchable heiress the tabloids worshipped.

This is what she wants them to see, he thought bitterly. An angel. Unbothered. Perfect.

But he knew better.

He’d seen the cracks.

“Careful, Klaude,” Olivia’s voice drawled beside him, snapping him back.

She’d dressed for war — a crimson gown cut scandalously low, diamonds glittering at her throat, her dark hair spilling in waves down her back. Every inch of her screamed presence, a deliberate rival to the angel in white.

“She’s beautiful,” Olivia added, too casually.

“You sound jealous,” he muttered, swirling the champagne in his glass.

“Should I be?” she asked, eyes narrowing just slightly as she sipped her drink.

He didn’t answer.

Because he couldn’t stop staring at Anastasia.

And then it happened.

Her gaze caught his across the ballroom.

For a moment, the noise dulled, the laughter faded, the music became background static.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Her eyes held his—cool, sharp, deliberate. And then, just before a passing guest broke the line of sight, her lips curved.

Not the polite smile she gave the cameras.

Not the angelic mask she wore for society.

This one was different.

This one was for him.

A challenge.

Klaude felt it like a spark catching dry kindling.

“You’re thinking about her again,” Olivia whispered, leaning close enough for her perfume to invade his senses.

Klaude downed his champagne in one swallow. “Stay out of my head.”

Olivia’s laugh was soft, but it had an edge. “I don’t need to be in your head, darling. She already owns it.”

The words hit their mark.

Klaude set the glass down too hard, the stem threatening to crack. He needed air, space, anything to silence the chaos clawing at him.

So he left.

He left the ballroom, left Olivia’s knowing smirk, left the false glitter of the gala behind.

But he didn’t leave her.

The image of Anastasia — radiant, sharp, untouchable — burned behind his eyelids long after the night ended.

And no matter how many glasses of whiskey he poured, no matter how many times Olivia whispered his name in the dark, no matter how many lies he repeated to himself…

It wasn’t her voice he wanted.

It was Anastasia’s.

And that terrified him more than losing control ever could.