Mask

Whispers Behind Closed Doors

The city at night looked like temptation.

Golden lights flickered against the black skyline, the hum of traffic softened by the Croft penthouse’s thick glass walls. The skyline stretched endlessly, glittering like a thousand unspoken promises.

But Klaude didn’t notice any of it.

He sat sprawled on the couch, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. One hand gripped a crystal tumbler of Macallan, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights. The other hand supported his jaw, his thumb grazing the sharp line of his cheekbone. He looked relaxed, dangerous, untouchable.

And he wasn’t alone.

“Do you know how dangerous it is to keep meeting me here?” Olivia’s voice broke the quiet. Soft. Teasing. A melody only meant for him.

She stood near the window, a silhouette framed by the skyline. A shadow in silk. Her slip dress clung to her body like liquid light, her bare shoulders catching the faint reflection of the city. She looked effortless. Comfortable. Like she belonged.

Klaude’s smirk curved lazily, though his grip on the glass tightened almost imperceptibly. “Dangerous? Everything worth having is dangerous.”

She turned her head, strands of dark hair falling across her face. “You mean me.”

“Always you.”

Olivia walked slowly, deliberately, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoing in the cavernous room. She stopped between his knees, lowering herself slightly so their faces were level. The air shifted — warmer, thicker.

“Then why,” she whispered, her thumb brushing the line of his jaw, “do you still let her wear your name?”

For the first time, his jaw flexed. He didn’t pull away.

“You think it’s that simple?” His voice dropped low, edged with steel.

“She’s an heiress, Klaude. A brand. A walking advertisement for your father’s empire. But you…” Her lips tilted in a sly smile. “You don’t look at her the way you look at me.”

Klaude didn’t answer.

Because she was wrong. And yet not entirely.

When he looked at Olivia, he saw desire. Familiarity. A dangerous comfort that wrapped around him like fire.

But when he looked at Anastasia…

He saw a storm. Untamed. Razor-sharp. A force he couldn’t control.

That night in the library replayed in his head like a curse. Her trembling breath when he cornered her. The venom hidden behind her angelic mask. The way she refused to bow.

She wasn’t the angel everyone else thought she was. He saw it. He wanted to strip her bare — not her body, but the facade she wore for the world.

Olivia’s voice snapped him back. “You’re quiet.”

He set his drink down with a heavy clink and leaned forward, his hand wrapping firmly around her wrist. His eyes were shards of ice. “You think I care about Anastasia? She’s a pawn. A pretty little angel for the magazines, nothing more.”

Olivia’s lips curved, but her eyes searched him with the accuracy of someone who had learned his every weakness. “Yet you’re thinking about her.”

Klaude froze.

She tilted her head, triumphant. “You forget, I know you.” Her smirk deepened as she swung one leg over, straddling him with practiced ease. Her perfume — jasmine and black amber — clung to the air. “She’s not me, Klaude. She’ll never be me.”

His hands gripped her waist. Firm. Possessive.

“You’re right,” he muttered.

But even as his lips found hers, even as Olivia’s silk dress slid against his hands, Anastasia’s voice echoed in his mind. That sharp whisper. That threat wrapped in silk.

“I don’t play. I win.”

It haunted him. Infuriated him.

Olivia’s lips moved against his, her whisper breathless. “Then prove it.”

And then words vanished.

The glass tipped over, amber spilling across the white marble. The rustle of silk, the slide of skin, the sound of him losing himself in a woman who wasn’t the one tormenting his thoughts.

Outside the penthouse, the city lights burned brighter, oblivious.

And just beyond the heavy double doors, a maid passed by quietly, carrying a tray of fresh flowers. She paused when faint laughter bled through the thick walls.

She hesitated — only for a heartbeat — before continuing down the hall.

She wouldn’t speak of it. Not to anyone.

But in her silence, she thought of the young woman she’d seen plastered across the glossy covers of magazines — the angel fiancée with her perfect gowns and practiced smile.

If only Anastasia knew.

If only the Angel knew what the Devil did behind closed doors.