The Two Year Wife

Camille’s POV “I have just one rule tonight. I won’t think about the numbers.” The mask itches against my face and the wine in my hand has gone warm, but i hold unto both like they are the only ones keeping me steady. Somewhere across this ballroom my father is discussing with men who could save our company or bury it, and I am supposed to be by his side cheerful, attractive and valuable. Instead i am standing by a window hiding. The room sparkles. Gold masks. Black masks. Feathers and lace adorned with jewels worth more than most people’s homes. Laurent Ateliers dressed up half this room tonight, two generations later my grandmother’s stitching still hold up the gowns together, yet it will all mean nothing of importance when the bank calls in out debt by spring. “Do not think about the numbers.” I pour the wine into my mouth and someone speaks behind me. “You’re the only person in this room who’s not smiling.” His voice is low and measured, the kind that makes people stop and listen. I turn around. He is tall and dressed in black, a plain silver mask hiding the upper half of his face. The parts i can see are sharp and striking. A hard jaw, a mouth that seems unfamiliar with kindness, and grey eyes that catch the chandelier’s lights and refuse to let go. “I am smiling,” I say to him. “You are simply standing too far away to see it.” “I am standing exactly where I want to be.” Something about the way he says it makes my heart race for a second. “And where is that?” “Next to the only person standing here looking like she would rather be anywhere else.” I should walk away. I know I should. My father would tell me so, to seek out the men with money and the women who whisper in their ears, smiling until my jaw begins to ache. I do not walk away. “For a stranger you seem to notice quite a lot,” I say. “I notice things.” “Dangerous hobby.” “Only for those who do not want to be noticed.” A laugh slips out before I can stop it. The sound surprises me, light and genuine in a room where everyone seems to be pretending. He watches me laugh like it was something rare. “You still haven’t told me your name,” I say. “No.” “Is that supposed to be a game?” “It’s a mask”, he says simply. “And tonight it doesn’t need a name.” I should find his words unsettling. Instead something reckless begins to stir deep within my chest, a feeling I had almost almost forgotten existed. It has been sleeping inside me for years, ever since my father became consumed by worries over numbers, debts and problems he never wanted me to know about. “Then I won’t tell you mine either,” I say. His mouth curves, just slightly, at one corner. “Very well,” he says, “I’d rather not know who to blame in the morning.” “Blame for what?” He moves closer. Close enough for me to catch the clean, expensive scent of his skin, a mix of cedar and something darker lingering beneath it. “For whatever happens next,” he says quietly. The music changes to a slower rhythm. Couples around us start moving across the floor, their gold and black clothes and jewels shimmering beneath the chandelier lights as they turn in slow circles. He holds out his hand to me like asking me to dance is the most natural thing in the world. I should say no. I put my hand in his instead. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and firm, and when he pulls me into the dance, everything else begins to disappear. The numbers, the banks, and the memory of my father’s tired eyes slowly drift out of my mind for the first time in months. “You dance like you are angry at someone,” he says. “I dance like I’ve had one too many glasses of wine.” “That is not what I asked.” I look up at him, only to find his eyes already watching me. Behind the mask, his eyes study me so closely that I almost feel exposed, as though it can see past my golden dress and straight into the thoughts that keep me awake at night. “Everyone here is angry at someone,” I say. “That is what masks are for.” “Is that why you are wearing yours?” he asks. “I am wearing mine because my grandmother designed it.” “It is beautiful.” “She would have been pleased to hear you say that.” “I wasn’t referring to the mask.” His words settle deep in my stomach, leaving me speechless. For a moment neither of us says anything. As the song comes to an end he keeps hold of my hand and makes no move to let go. “Come outside with me,” he says. “I do not know you.” “You are not supposed to. That is the entire point of tonight.” I look across the ballroom and spot my father speaking with someone. His shoulders are tight, just as they have been these past few days. No one seems to be looking for me. Not yet. “Just one drink,” I say. “We’ll have it on the terrace, and that’s it.” For a brief moment something flashes in his eyes behind the mask, perhaps amusement or a challenge. I cannot tell the difference. “We will see,” he says. The terrace is calm and cool, with small strings of lights hanging above us. Stone railings surround us, looking out over rooftops that have turned silver beneath the night sky. He hands me another glass of wine before leaning against the railing, watching the city for once instead of me. “Tell me one true thing,” I say. “Since neither of us has a name.” He considers it. “I do not like parties like this,” he says. “Then why come?” “Obligation. Family. The usual reasons people do things they hate.” “That is very honest for a masked man.” “Your turn,” he says. I look out at the rooftops instead of him. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose something that doesn’t even belong to me to lose,” I say softly. I am not sure why I tell him that. Perhaps it is because the mask hides most of my face. Maybe because in an hour, we will both be strangers again, and the words between us will mean nothing. He goes quiet for a long moment. “You will not lose it,” he says finally. “Not if you are as stubborn as you dance.” “You do not know that.” “No, he agrees. “But I am rarely wrong.” “Arrogant.” “Observant.” I laugh again, and this time, he returns it with a genuine smile. It catches me off guard, appearing briefly before disappearing almost immediately. After that, we do not speak about names, companies, or fathers. We speak about unimportant things, laughing over nothing, and somehow, it becomes the most meaningful conversation I have had in months. When he finally reaches up and gently moves a strand of hair from my face, his fingers barely touching my skin, I do not pull away. “I should go back inside,” I whisper, without moving. “You should,” he agrees, without moving either. Neither of us goes back inside. What happens after that is something I will not put into words, not even in my mind. Some things are too difficult to explain clearly. I only know that somewhere between the terrace and a private room down the hall, the mask stops meaning anything, and his hands no longer feel unfamiliar. When he tells me my name is not important tonight, I believe him completely. By morning, I plan to disappear before he wakes, following the silent agreement we made with nothing more than a look. I leave before the sun rises, the morning sky still painted grey. My dress is gathered in my hands, and my mask hangs loosely from my fingers. I refuse to look back at the door. I tell myself that I will forget everything before I even reach the car. I am wrong about that too. My phone started buzzing before I even reach the street, message after message lighting up the screen,all from the same name. Papa? I open the first one and my stomach drops before I even finish reading it. The bank has pulled our loan. Effective immediately. He need me back in Paris tonight, and for the first time since I walked into that ballroom, the numbers I came here to forget are waiting for me the moment I step back outside.