All Things Are Wrong

The Masquerade I

A collection of enormous brass chandeliers hangs overhead, its dripping crystals glitter in the soft glow. Light showers the ballroom in a mixture of refracted colors dancing on the walls, while pockets of the venue remain in the shadows. It’s a breathtaking sight. And just like the Elie Saab I’m wearing, it’s “for-the-eyes-only”. I look down and see the crimson gown catch a swirl from the lights, the fabric shimmers as I brush my hand against my curves, reveling in the glances—both the envious and the admiring—it attracts.

It’s a strategic choice, the dress. Everything’s always strategic with you, Chase. The kind that screams “calculated success”. High slit, corseted bodice for just enough cleavage to turn heads without running the risk of a mishap, and a floor length skirt semi-ballgown style. Not too wide of a silhouette, but not too figure-hugging either. This way, I get to make sure anyone who looks my way doesn't try to approach and invade my personal space. No one would dare ruin such a beautiful designer piece.

The ballroom is aptly decorated with intricate installations for this year's gala's theme: Unveiling The Bloom. I have to say, the vibrant colors really stand out against the emerald, embracing the space with its greenery on the walls. Gold tables deliberately line the gleaming wooden floorboards, featuring glass centerpieces bursting with exotic flowers; purple orchids. fuchsia roses and the like. The attendees, all dressed in their most colorful finery, look like petals swaying in the air, as their designer smiles stretch across masked faces.

The music, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons fades out, replaced by some romantic ballad as people begin to pair up, making their way into the dance floor. Suddenly, the place feels like I’m in one of those historical fiction TV shows, albeit a modern setting.

Champagne flute in hand, I drift towards the door that leads to the terrace outside. The silk skirt of my gown grazing along the floor as it brushes past people. Dancing with strangers? No, thank you. Believe me, the irony of being at a masquerade-themed gala and avoiding the dance floor is not lost on me. But the thought of waltzing with a stranger is an uncertainty I don't enjoy.

On the terrace, the wind from the cool Midtown evening air breezes through to caress my skin as I take a long sip from the glass, my lipstick leaving a visible ruby stain on its rim. In enjoying the solitude from getting away, I savor the crisp champagne as contentment washes over me. Hmm…yes. This is just what I need. Tonight, the mood feels perfect. Time to unwind.

For a moment, I catch a glimpse of my reflection on one of the high windows. The gold sculptural masquerade covering most of my face, leaves my lips visible and gives me an anonymity that's as intoxicating as the champagne in my glass. Feeling good and looking good? Not bad, Chase. I give myself a satisfied smile.

Then, I frown at the reflection. A small commotion at the edge of the crowd draws my attention, a bunch of traders walking towards me.

"It’s a shame a woman as gorgeous as you isn’t dancing with anyone." A pretentious deep voice, slithers in from behind, but I don't grant it the dignity of a response. I don’t turn either, just take another sip of champagne to show my disinterest.

But as quickly as the bubbles fizzle out from my tongue, another sleazy voice quickly chimes in.

“Hey, beautiful.”

An unoriginal compliment and a lazy attempt to elicit a response from me. I’m aware of how beautiful I look tonight but I don’t need any reminders from self-proclaimed hotshots who only come to this party hoping to get laid.

I inhale sharply, gathering all my strength to resist telling them what’s on my mind. My back turned away isn't a "come hither." It's a "leave me alone" sign that these idiots are apparently confusing with “approach me”.

God, why can’t they ever take a f*cking hint.

“Wanna get out of here?”

Rolling my eyes as I finally pivot on my stiletto heel, meeting this disappointing trio of men with a look of disdain.

They remind me of those internet idiots who sit together in a room, and go on their little soapboxes, insisting that the stupid things they’ve said about women is some profound knowledge everyone should hear.

My jaw slightly clenches at the thought before trying to calm myself. Don’t let these basura ruin the night.

Oh please. Men have always been ruining things for me, because I’m a woman. I have to work twice as hard than these f*ckers, even though I’m already great at what I do. They get all the praise but little to none of the scrutiny, despite their incompetence. All I get is to be reduced to some trophy they think they can claim. Just their sheer audacity alone is enough to ruin this night.

It’s not enough that they’re treating this charity ball like their own speed dating event, no, they have to insist every woman they approach with their mediocrity must get all starry-eyed.

Because nothing screams "peak masculinity" like harassing a woman who's perfectly enjoying herself.

Just your typical group of “alpha” men who, despite hiding their faces behind masks, can’t hide themselves from being the definition of pathetic. Losers gotta lose, I guess.

I purse my lips to stifle a groan about to escape my mouth.

At the center of this ménage à trois, a bald man in an ill-fitting white suit paired with an even more ill-fitting black shirt underneath gives me an unsettling grin. You could barely see his face from the feathers fanning across the gold mask, except for that awful smile.

"Would the lady like to join us?", he gestures with an open arm. Like continuing to harass me is going to change my mind.

I don’t answer. I just roll my eyes. This time, internally. For f*ck’s sake, this is a charity ball, not a hunting ground for badly dressed men who can’t read the room.

His companions fill in for my silence with crude chuckles, mocking him and his apparent failure.

But instead of accepting the rejection, he decides to put the blame on me with a dismissive, “Come on, don't be so stuck up.” Look at that, masks on, self-awareness apparently off. These idiots should try developing a personality instead of hitting on someone who clearly wants nothing to do with them.

I raise a perfectly arched eyebrow at him and give the coldest stare that could freeze an ocean, it would practically reverse the climate crisis. A million scenarios flash through my mind as I imagine what I’d do to these clowns, if we weren’t in such a public setting.

A couple minutes ago, I was enjoying myself, alone. Now, I have to find a way to get out of this conversation that I never even asked for. I gave him every chance to stop talking but he “persisted” and now, he’s clearly embarrassed. Talk about audacity and fragility, all rolled into one. I feel a small flare of irritation slowly rising up from inside me. But I’d rather die than accept this is my fault.

"The lady would not like to join you," I reply coolly, the dismissal a signal of the end of this unwanted interaction. He raises an eyebrow, completely taken aback. Without giving him a chance to say anything, I swerve my body to the side. “Thank you for playing, boys.”, I quip, throwing my shoulder as I walk away.

With the confidence of a lioness who’s just devoured her kill, I sashay back inside, basking in the pleasure of crushing their fragile egos. I finish the last of my champagne. I think I need a victory drink.

A dark corner by the hors d'oeuvres table offers me the closest thing to a solace to return to enjoying myself. I amble over, hoping a waiter passes by with a tray so I can get rid of my empty glass. But I don’t see one standing nearby. F*ck. My eyes dart across the room, desperate for any sign of a waiting staff, but they seem to have vanished entirely. Damn, where the hell are these guys? I debate whether to hold onto the glass or simply leave it at the table, the thought of it next to the food makes my skin crawl. That just sounds so irresponsible. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a flicker of movement from a figure approaching catches my eye.

Finally, a waiter.

Eyeing the canapés on a slate platter, I hold out the empty glass to hand it to the then figure, now clearly a man, next to me. In one swift move, he takes it away as if on cue. Wait, what? The action takes me aback and I look over at the waiter already turning his back to walk away, no doubt to return the empty glass to the catering room. What waiter doesn’t hold a tray for guests to just simply put their finished drinks on? It almost feels like if he didn’t take it, I would have dropped it. But you didn’t, Chase.

Whatever, let’s go back to the canapés. I grab one and take a bite out of it, the sweet grapes complementing the creamy Bleu De Bresse cheese. The cheese, oh the cheese! I finish the entire thing in two bites, eager to just stuff my face with more. I can’t help but reach for another canapé, its flavors lingering in my mouth.

As I munch on the last few bites left, the ballroom slowly fills with the crowd. I really need that drink now. I scan the room to hunt for a waiter with a serving tray, missing nothing, from the brown-haired techbro at the bar, gloating about his latest sitch with AI, to the glimmering socialites in a circle beside the stage, trading rumors of juicy scandals. Years of wielding power in boardrooms has turned my gaze into a weapon so precise I can easily notice every detail in a space.

Across from me, I see the waiter from earlier, walking towards me while holding two glasses of champagne. Huh? Wait a minute.

I don’t think this guy’s a waiter.