All Things Are Wrong

The Masquerade II

“Your drink, Madame.”, his voice deep but muffled, I almost couldn’t make up the words. The mysterious man offers me one of the fresh flutes of champagne. I eye him appraisingly as I receive the bubbling drink from his hands, his uniquely elaborate mask obscuring everything, except his dark brown eyes. Our fingers brush against each other for a brief moment, his soft touch so warm compared to the cold and calloused hands I usually shake in boardrooms.

I look at him with curious eyes, my gaze like a magnifying glass inspecting him from head to toe. He doesn’t flinch, he just stands there, as if allowing me to ogle. Who are you? His bespoke dark green suit clings to his muscular frame like Adam in Eden—tall, broad-shouldered, well-groomed and good-postured—a total contrast to the pompous-assed peacocks from earlier.

He raises his glass in a silent toast, I raise my glass in response. He’s probably some hired usher or a socialite’s escort. They always seem to get these model types.

A rhythmic tapping of the mic puts the entire room into a halt, interrupting my thoughts. The music from the speakers is now a fading symphony under the crowd’s murmurs. I shift my attention to the stage, pushing my thoughts about Mystery Man to the back of my head.

One of the hosts smiles radiantly as she holds the event program in her hand.

“Apologies for the interruption, everyone,” announces Mina, a seasoned Asian actress whose elegance is unmatched. "But we'd like to remind you that the auction begins in fifteen minutes.”, she continues, her royal purple dress complementing the green of her eyes.

After she gives a soft tap on the other host's arm, a tall Black man donning a vibrant indigo suit, he takes over. Michael’s suave voice fills the room amidst glasses clinking, “The art will be showcased in the Club Room and the Ace Room will display the jewels. Thank you.”

Their vivid outfits stand out on the stage floor wrapped in realistic-looking vines. I can’t help but take in the entire view. Beatrice really outdid herself this time.

An unmistakable shriek cuts through the playing music, “Ahhh! You came!” I turn to find my childhood friend, Beatrice, a vision in her bold rich blue off-shoulder gown. Speak of the Devil wearing her favorite brand, Prada.

She maneuvers her way towards me, holding a filled wine glass and a Swarovski encrusted clutch. In. One. Hand. It’s moments like this where I truly believe women are superior to men.

I give her an approving smile. She looks good!

Beatrice, with her love for fashion and rhyming, nudges me with her elbow, “So, the Forbes 30 under 30 getting dirty at a charity yet?” Her melodic voice teasing me as a hint of mischief dances on her big beautiful brown eyes. We both know "dirty" means an entirely different thing for us than it does for most people at this gala.

“You know I don’t f*ck where I work.” You just like to make them work when you f*ck, right Chase? I reply with a wry smile. I don’t even know what he looks like under that mask. What can I say? I’ve got standards.

Beatrice throws her head back and lets out her signature giggly laugh. Her dark brown hair swinging behind her dress. “Right, and you don’t work where you f*ck, I know,” she retorts, monotonally reciting the phrase I always tell her when she tries to play matchmaker. A game we used to play with each other, until, well, until my tastes changed.

“As if I need any more of your playdates.” I tease back. She swears it’s the last everytime I end up on the most boring date with another “executive”, but it never is. We always laugh it off when I tell her all about it.

“But babes, look at him,” she gestures towards the enigma-turned-personal-champagne-dispenser. “All ready to serve. Offering you champagne like it’s a tribute.”, a sly smile plays on her lips. "Although,” she pauses, her gaze flickers from me to the man, then back again, “I wouldn’t mind taking him off your hands tonight", purring suggestively.

For years, I’ve been successful at hiding this information about myself, not just from the public, but also from my trusted circle of people. But are you really best friends with another woman if you don’t share s****l fantasies with each other? Beatrice knows what I like all too well, and tonight, she’s encouraging me to take it. We might have different preferences, she’s a fan of the sweeter touch, while I enjoy a tighter leash, but the thrill of it all—that, we share completely.

I look over to my side and see the waiter-usher-escort-model—seriously, what even is he?—collecting two glasses of champagne from a tray held by an actual waiter. Is he just going to be my silent personal butler for tonight? I chuckle at the thought. Getting with a guy at events like this is a PR nightmare about to happen, like trouble with a capital T. Besides, I think his interest in servitude is only limited to delivering me drinks.

While I entertain the idea of maybe taking this guy to my hotel, Beatrice’s phone rings.

“s**t. I need to take this, it’s something about one of the auction pieces. You don’t have to take him with you, just make out or make him eat you out on the terrace outside. Nobody’s gonna know.” With that final teasing remark, Beatrice waltzes her way to one of the auction rooms, the heels of her stilettos clicking against the wooden floorboards.

Out of nowhere, a waiter desperately hurries his way behind Mystery Man. Some entitled prick probably rushed the poor waiter. I shake my head, my eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

Crash! Tinggg! The sudden loud noise of a silver tray clattering on the floor rips through, creating a ringing in my ears. Oww! Glass shards instantly fly across the wood, sending guests in gowns frantically jumping up and hiking their skirts a few inches off the floor, while the ones wearing pants pull their partners away from the disaster zone.

In a blink of an eye, the fun party atmosphere shifts into one ripped from a horror film as echoes of screams and gasps envelop the room. Then, I see him. Mystery Man, stumbling over towards me, his perfectly balanced posture knocked off by the waiter. My heart races as panic rapidly builds up in my chest. Is this man going to fall on top of me and spill a glass of $100 champagne on my $7,000 dress?

On instinct, and before I could overthink it, I lunge myself forward to catch Mystery Man before he has a chance to crash into me and ruin my gown. Quick Chase, his arm! The forceful shove from my grip knocks him sideways, a look of surprise flickers on his eyes as he barely catches himself by bracing his elbow on the edge of the table. In one awkward motion, the near collision brings the man close to me. So close that the warm and heady musk of the fragrance he's wearing infiltrates my senses. This is ridiculously too close.

The scent mesmerizes me, tuning out the chaos around us and turning it into background noise. Immediately, all my focus is on him, this stranger standing just inches from me. A primal heat rises inside me as our eyes lock. And I can see in those coffee-colored eyes of his from up close, that he feels it, too.

Why am I gripping him harder now? My fingers tighten around his arm, the smooth fabric bunching. He doesn't seem fazed by both my stare or my grip. Good, a man unafraid to be devoured. Intoxicatingly masculine without being offensive, unlike the usual “savage” types. Your type, Chase? It's bold and honeyed at the same time, the kind of fragrance that’s got a depth to it. A sweet caramel-like scent infused with a whiff of something I can’t quite place occupies the air between us, something exotic, like vetiver maybe?

Whatever it is, his perfume is definitely not some basic “masculine” scent. No, this is something only worn by a man who’s not afraid to indulge his soft side.

I try not to breathe, my chest tightening as I suppress the instinct to inhale deeply and really take it in. I can feel the tight muscles of his arm flexing under my grip while he steadies himself. Get it together, Chase. This isn't the time to be savoring some random's cologne while everyone’s a mess.

I force myself to take a shallow breath, internally reminding myself that I’m not in some badly written romance novel fantasy. After giving myself an inward eye roll, I straighten myself, immediately releasing my hold on his shoulder while using my other arm to create a little more distance between us. He rights himself, stepping back to allow a respectful distance between us once more. I mirror his actions, taking a small step back with my loubs to reestablish my personal space.

"I’m not sure grabbing a stranger’s arm is part of the entertainment," I say dryly, my mouth twisting into a wry smirk. I let the words linger for emphasis.

There. Some humor to deflect the moment and redirect it to something I control. You have piqued my curiosity, Mystery Man, but I'll be damned if I let you think you can just insert yourself so easily. A shiver runs down my spine, I can’t tell if it’s a reaction to the moment or the adrenaline fading.

And just like that, the moment ends. A crew of waiters suddenly appear, nervously apologizing to me and the guests as they rush to clean up the shattered glass.

I mentally shake off the distracting cloud of his cologne, anxiously checking on the floor beneath me to see if any glass rolled its way under my gown. When I look back to check on Mystery Man, he’s gone. The only thing he leaves me with is a fading trail of the faint scent lingering in the air. I think I might be drunk, but not on champagne.