Chapter One: The Man Behind the Mask
The music pulsed through her body like a second heartbeat. Champagne bubbles danced on her tongue as she stepped deeper into the large ballroom, the weight of the golden mask pressing gently against her smooth cheekbones. Camila Reyes didn’t belong here—her thrifted heels and borrowed gown screamed it—but for one night, she could at least pretend.
Tonight, no one knew she was a broke art student struggling to pay rent. Tonight, no one saw the cracked phone in her purse or the eviction notice folded beneath her lipstick. She was simply a mystery woman at an exclusive masquerade party, invited by mistake when a wealthy gallery assistant texted the wrong number. And she hadn’t even corrected him.
A violinist played a haunting tune as masked men and women twirled beneath chandeliers like ghosts in a dream. Camila wandered to the edge of the dance floor, feeling both invisible and exposed.
"Lost?" a voice said right behind her.
She turned—and saw him.
Tall. Dark. Immaculately dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than her tuition. His mask was black velvet, his lips sharp and unsmiling, and his presence… heavy. Commanding. Like he owned the room.
“Not lost,” she said, lifting her chin. “Just observing.”
“Interesting answer.” He stepped closer. His cologne—wood, spice, danger—wrapped around her. “I don’t recognize you.”
“That’s the point of a mask, isn’t it?”
He chuckled, low and dangerous. “It is. But masks only hide the face. Not the fire.”
Camila’s pulse spiked. She should walk away. She should smile politely and disappear into the surrounding crowd. But something about him—something untouchable and raw—rooted her to the spot.
“I’m not fire,” she said.
“No,” he agreed, eyes dragging down her form slowly. “You’re gasoline.”
She didn’t remember moving. One minute she was staring into his eyes, the next, they were dancing. His hand on her lower back was firm but respectful. Their bodies fit too perfectly, too easily.
“What do you do?” he asked.
She hesitated before replying. “I paint.”
“Professionally?”
“No. Just… when I can afford canvas.”
Something flickered behind his mask. “That’s honest.”
“Brutally.”
“I like that.”
The music slowed. His grip lingered. Her skin felt too hot. Too sensitive. She had no idea who this man was—only that he was rich, powerful, and very dangerous to her heartbeat.
“Do you always dance with strangers?” she asked, breathless.
“No,” he murmured. “But tonight… I don’t want to stop.”
