Chapter 8:Red Silk And Vodka
1126 Words
The Queen of Hearts fluttered from her hand as a shadow stepped out of the corridor.
“Miss me?” Amara smirked.
Selene blinked. Her heart was still in her throat.
“Amara?”
“Relax girl,” Amara laughed softly. “You should have seen your face.”
“ You–that was you?”
Amara twirled dramatically in her heels, her dark red coat flaring around her. “What gave it away? The card or the flawless sense of timing”
“You're insane.” Selene shook her head exhaling.
“You're welcome.” Amara stepped forward and linked her arm with Selene's. “You were walking like a haunted statue, that face needed a jumpstart.”
"I could have stabbed you."
“But you didn't,” she winked. “Proof you've gone soft, I guess Maxwell isn't rubbing off on you.”
Selene laughed under her breath. The tension in her shoulders began to fade. “You're terrible.”
“And you're boring.”
Selene raised an eyebrow.
“ Ever since you got back from Russia you've not been yourself. I need the old Selene back. I need my best friend back.That's why we're fixing that. You owe me a night out,” Amara said, pouting her lips.
Selene hesitated. “I don't think…”
“Don’t think ,just say yes.” Amara interrupted, smiling with teeth.
Selena smiled faintly. “Fine.”
Forty-five minutes later in Amara’s apartment, the living room was transformed into a temporary glam station. Make-up palettes were scattered across the coffee table, a curler steamed softly in the corner, and soft French music played in the background.
Selene sat in front of a mirror, letting Amara line her eyes with a steady hand.
“I forgot how therapeutic this was” Amara muttered, her tongue tucked in concentration. “You sitting while I turn you into a sin.”
Selene scoffed. “That sounds comforting.”
“Relax,” Amara said, dabbing red lipstick onto her lips. “You're going to be the best thing on that rooftop tonight.”
Selene glanced at herself. The woman in the mirror didn't look like her. Dark lashes curled sharp, cheekbones like carved glass, mouth wicked in red.
The black lace mask rested on the counter.
“Here,” Amara tossed the box. “Your dress.”
It was heavier than it looked. Selene held it up and blinked. “Where's the rest of it?”
Amara grinned.
…..
The rooftop was alive by the time they arrived.
A slumping thump of bass vibrated through the building's steel bones. Fairy lights danced across the sky and people in masks mingled under the stars barely visible past the city glow.
Selene stepped out first, wrapped in a long black coat. No one had noticed her yet.
Amara gave her one look. “Are you ready?”
“No”
Amara rolled her eyes and reached over, tugging the coat from Selene's shoulder.
Silence rippled.
Then someone whistled low. Another woman blinked and bumped into her drink. A man in a feathered mask actually turned around for a second look.
Selene adjusted her mask, chin tilted high, and walked forward.
The blood-red silk dress caught the light with every step. It fit too well, with a slit that teased but never begged and a neckline that was more than an invitation. Her hair was down in soft waves and her heels glistened.
And for the first time in a long while, Selene felt it–freedom, The feeling of not being watched or extremely cautious.
Someone handed her a drink before she even reached the bar. Then another. Then one more.
By the time Amara tugged her into the dancing crowd.
Selene was barefoot, warm all over, and laughing so easily it scared her.
She wasn't thinking about Vincent or Maxwell, she wasn't thinking about playing the role of a perfect wife.
She was just a girl in a red dress dancing on a rooftop in the middle of winter.
A masked man approached her after her second dance. He didn't speak –just held out a hand, Selene blinked, shrugged, then took it.
They moved through the music like they'd met in another life. He spun her once. Then twice. Her laugh rose too loud, her mask slipped just a little, and she didn't care enough to fix it.
And that was when she noticed him.
Maxwell Hale.
Sitting on a lounge chair at the end of the rooftop like he'd been there the whole time. One leg crossed, elbow resting lazily on the arm rest. A mask dangled from his fingers, half forgotten.
And he was smirking.
Of course he was.
Selene squinted. Her heels dangled from one hand, and her drink was long gone, traded for two more somewhere in between the dance floor.
She blinked again.
Nope. Still him.
The rooftop lights cast a soft gold over her bare shoulders, over the curve of the deep red silk dress that now clung to her.
She walked up to him, swaying slightly–not from nerves.
From Vodka
“You,” she said, stopping in front of him, pointing accusingly. “You're not even wearing your mask.”
Maxwell looked up at her slowly. The smirk still tugging at his mouth. “I wasn't in the mood to.”
Selene placed a hand on her hip. “This is a masquerade party, Hale. Masquerade. You can't just show up looking like …you.”
“I could say the same,” he said, his gaze sweeping over her. “That dress doesn't exactly scream disguise.”
She stepped closer. “Are you following me?”
“I was here first.”
“No you weren't," she leaned down, almost nose to nose, trying to look serious. “I would have noticed.”
“You were a little busy.”
“Dancing is not a crime,” she huffed, then poked his shoulder. “And neither is having fun.”
His brow lifted, amused. “You seem very… different tonight.”
“Is that a problem?” she grinned, then tilted her head.
He didn't answer.
She reached for the mask in his hand, turned it over once, and handed it back. “Next time wear it, you're messing with the whole theme.”
Maxwell took the mask but didn't move. He was still staring at her.
And for a second, Selene forgot what she came to say. Or maybe she didn't have anything to say at all.
So she smiled, spun on her bare feet and walked away.
“ You never cease to amaze me,” he muttered to himself. His gaze fixed on the red silk, disappearing into the crowd.
- Writer
