-Lucien.
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I don't know why I agreed to this.
No—that's not true. I do know. I knew the moment he looked at me with that grin, eyes wide with mischief and a thread of longing, mask already in hand I knew then that I'd follow him anywhere.
Even into this.
The party was already in motion by the time we arrived. Music trickled through gilded arches—strings, delicate and relentless, layered over synthetic bass like two worlds trying to ignore the fact that they don't belong together. The lights were warm but artificial, low and golden like the kind used to soften flaws and sell intimacy. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above us like watchful eyes, and the scent of rosewater and clove floated beneath every breath.
Masks everywhere. Faces half-lost, identities sharpened by concealment. It was beautiful. Unnatural. A pantomime of status and wine-stained legacy.
I stood still. Observing.
But my gaze kept pulling back to him.
Reed.
Wearing that gold mask like it had been crafted just to frame his dark eyes. The way it shimmered against the lean cut of his suit, the subtle charcoal lines that traced his shoulders—it was unfair. Unforgivable, how he outshone everything in the room without even trying. He looked like trouble in gilded packaging. Or salvation, depending on the hour.
He caught me staring, of course. Tilted his head, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile but made the room feel warmer anyway.
I should've left right then. I should've remembered who I am. What this is.
But instead, I moved to him.
The host—a client I barely tolerated—was giving a speech by then. Standing under a spotlight, voice swelling through the speakers with grand phrases about innovation and vision. They gestured like politicians. Laughed like frauds.
I leaned close to Reed, close enough that the edge of my mask touched his. "Come with me."
He blinked, smile twitching. "We're missing the rousing ode to capitalism."
"I'll send them a fruit basket," I said, already sliding my hand around his wrist.
He didn't resist. He never really does.
We moved through the crowd like smoke, disappearing behind silk-draped archways and into one of the side corridors—barely lit, the walls lined with mirrors dulled by age and dust. The carpet muted our footsteps. The hush felt holy.
I backed him gently into the wall. His breath caught, chest lifting beneath his suit.
"I thought this wasn't your scene," he whispered, teasing on the surface, but there was something else in his voice. A question. A challenge.
"It isn't."
Then I kissed him.
I don't know what gave first—my restraint or his mouth. But the moment they touched, everything else dissolved. It wasn't careful. It wasn't soft. It was need meeting need in the quiet between worlds. His hands were already in my hair, pulling me closer, mouth opening beneath mine like he'd been waiting.
God, the way he kissed. Like it meant something. Like I wasn't an imposter in a nice suit. Like he wanted this. Me.
I pressed him harder into the wall, lips grazing along his jaw, down his neck. I wanted to mark him. Hide him. Keep him.
His fingers dug into my back as he arched against me. "You kiss like a villain."
"Only to people who ask for it."
"Which part do you think I'm asking for?" he whispered.
I kissed him again instead of answering. Harder this time. His body answered that clearly enough.
We only stopped when we had to.
Breathless, flushed, masks crooked and forgotten somewhere along the corridor.
His breath was still caught in my mouth.
The kiss ended, but neither of us moved for a long moment. His forehead rested against mine, and the echo of what just happened still clung to the air between us—warm, electric, trembling.
"If this is your idea of a date," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse but laced with that ever-present grin, "we're definitely doing another one."
I let out a low breath, almost a laugh. "You say that like you have a choice."
He kissed the corner of my mouth—too soft for what it did to me—and pulled back, smoothing his hands over his jacket. "Bathroom. Don't cause any international incidents while I'm gone."
I leaned against the wall after he left, arms crossed, trying to ground myself again. My lips still tingled. My chest felt uncomfortably open.
You kissed him like you meant it.Because you did.
I pushed off the wall, straightened my jacket, and returned to the ballroom.
The light felt softer now. Less invasive. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was him.
When Reed returned a few minutes later, hair slightly damp from where he'd splashed water on his face, tie still crooked, I felt myself smile before I could stop it. He looked like trouble. Like he had no idea the weight he was starting to carry inside me.
He caught me staring. "You planning to dance or just haunt this corner all night?"
"I don't dance."
He narrowed his eyes, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "You kissed like someone who would."
"I kissed like someone who wanted to shut you up."
"And it worked," he said, sipping. "But only temporarily."
He led the way back into the crowd like he owned the floor. And maybe he did. People looked at him—half because of the gold mask and the lean, striking way he moved, and half because he looked like someone having a good time. Someone untouchable. Someone chosen.
We wandered. We tasted things. He made me try some obscure cocktail that tasted like regret and herbs. We made a game of guessing people's professions based on how aggressively they gestured during small talk. He slipped his hand into mine once—casually, like it didn't mean anything—but didn't let go for almost ten minutes.
I didn't take it back.
We laughed too loudly. Stayed too long. Let the hours slide into each other until the party started to thin.
And for once—for just one night—I didn't think about what came after.
Only the fact that he was still beside me. And I wanted to keep it that way.
We were standing near the back, watching a couple spin dramatically across the center of the ballroom like they were being paid in applause and inherited trauma. Reed leaned into me to whisper some biting commentary I only half-heard, too busy watching the way the low light kissed the edge of his jaw, the soft shadow of his smile beneath the mask.
Then someone approached him.
A woman—mid-30s maybe, with cropped hair and a dress that glimmered when she moved. She wasn't wearing a mask, just heavy eye makeup and quiet confidence.
"Excuse me," she said, looking straight at Reed, not sparing me more than a glance. "Would you dance with me?"
Reed blinked. "Me?"
She smiled. "Yes. You look like you know how to."
Reed turned to me.
I kept my face neutral. Shrugged once, hands in my pockets. I thought it was obvious. Just a nonchalant you don't have to entertain this. I expected a snarky refusal, a "sorry, I'm more of a background character," or maybe a joke about his knees being allergic to waltzing.
But he said, "Alright."
And he followed her out onto the dance floor. No hesitation.
I stared at the space where he'd just stood. Still warm. Still echoing with his laughter.
I blinked, lips parting slightly. Not in shock. Just… bafflement. I didn't expect him to say yes.
Reed took her hand with an ease that didn't match his usual chaos. His posture straightened, one hand at her waist, the other guiding her—not just adequately, but well. He pivoted smoothly, confident, even graceful in the lazy swing of the tempo. The music swelled around them, some slow, swaying jazz number now repurposed for flirtation and formality.
He smiled at something she said. Tilted his head. Said something back. She laughed.
And I stood there—still. Watching.
He looked good out there. Too good. Like he belonged. Like he'd done this before.
And that was what unsettled me most.
I had imagined him awkward. Snarky. Flushed with embarrassment, eyes darting back to me for help or a rescue. But this version of Reed? Poised. Assured. Guiding someone else's hands with care and precision?
I didn't recognize that version. But I couldn't look away from him.
His smile wasn't for me this time.
He turned slightly as he spun her, and for a fleeting second, his eyes met mine across the dance floor. Something unreadable flickered across his face. Not smug. Not surprised.
Just aware. Like he knew. Like he'd seen the slip in my expression before I could catch it.
I turned my gaze to the nearest waiter, grabbed a new glass of champagne. Anything to fill the sudden quiet in my chest.
Because I didn't expect him to say yes. And I certainly didn't expect him to dance like that.
He came back to me flushed, still grinning, a touch of sweat along his hairline that only made him look more alive. He was smug in the effortless way only he could be, like he hadn't just left me standing in the corner for the past five minutes wondering when exactly I lost control of the narrative.
I watched him approach, one slow sip of champagne masking the acid in my throat.
"Did you have your fun?" I asked, too casually. Too measured. My tone didn't match the way my jaw ached from being clenched.
He tilted his head at me, as if weighing my expression. "I did," he said, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in his voice. "Why? Jealous?"
I smiled. Thin. Hollow. "Let's go."
"Sure," he said, still amused. Still glowing, damn him. "We can go."
I didn't wait for more.
I turned.
I didn't speak again.
Every step I took across the ballroom felt too loud in my head, even though the music still played and conversations still buzzed. Reed had danced with a woman. A stranger. Someone who had the audacity to approach him like he was just available, like he didn't belong to something tangled and complicated and mine.
And he'd gone with her.
No protest. No hesitation. He just—said yes.
Why did that bother me?
She wasn't a threat. She didn't even know who he was to me. She didn't matter.
But the part of me that had touched him minutes ago—against the wall, in that corridor, his mouth open under mine, the softness of his breath catching between us like it belonged there—that part now felt ridiculous.
Because he'd smiled at her. Because she made him laugh. Because he had danced like he'd done it a hundred times before, like his body knew how to be elegant when he wasn't busy being mine.
I glanced back once, just to be sure he was following. He was.
His expression was unreadable now, mask still in place, but his posture said he wasn't concerned. He didn't know anything was wrong. He should have.
We moved in silence through the corridors, out past the velvet curtains, into the cooler night air. The party behind us dimmed to a hum, like something mechanical continuing without purpose.
I heard Reed speak behind me, but I didn't process the words.
Didn't respond.
My hand found the car keys automatically, unlocking the Jaguar as we stepped into the garage. The lights above flickered faintly, casting our shadows long and bending on the polished floor.
He said something again—low, a little more questioning this time.
I still said nothing.
Not because I wanted to punish him. Not intentionally. I just… didn't trust my voice. I didn't know what might come out if I let myself speak.
Anger? Sarcasm?
The stupid, needy confession clawing its way up my throat?
He got into the car beside me. The door clicked shut.
And the silence settled in like fog, thick and stifling.
I started the engine.
The car responded immediately, smooth and obedient.
Unlike me. Unlike him.
And I didn't look at him once as we pulled out of the garage and into the night.
He threw his mask in the backseat, mine was already somewhere on the ground.
"Are you ever planning on telling me what's going on? Why are you suddenly like this?"
His voice cut through the silence like a blade, not loud, but tired. Tired in a way I wasn't used to hearing from him.
I gripped the wheel tighter.
"The fact that you don't understand on your own is very infuriating," I said. It came out sharper than I meant. Defensive. Unfair.
Reed turned toward me, exasperated. "How would I know what's annoying you that much without you telling me? I have no crystal ball, Lucien."
And then—sarcasm. Just his usual armor. But tonight, it grated against something I didn't even realize was raw until it flared.
"Does it hurt you to stop being sarcastic for a minute?"
I moved my hand.
Just slightly.
And he flinched.
Only a little—but I saw it. A reflex. Subtle. Controlled. But it was there.
And it shattered something in me.
His shoulders went rigid the second it happened, as if he already regretted it, as if he didn't want me to notice. As if he was the one who had something to apologize for.
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
He turned his face away, staring out the window, eyes locked on the blur of streetlights passing by.
"Reed, I—" I tried. But the words didn't follow. My voice felt like it had been caught in my throat, twisted into silence.
I pulled the car over. Slowed to a halt on the side of an empty road, soft gravel crunching under the tires.
Then I got out.
Walked around the car with too many thoughts crashing over each other like waves I couldn't catch.
I opened his door slowly, crouched down until we were eye level. The light above us was dim, casting shadows under his lashes, softening the lines of his face.
He didn't look at me.
I reached out, but stopped myself.
"Reed," I said quietly, "I would never lay a hand on you. I would never."
He nodded a little too fast. "That's fine. I know. I know," he mumbled, like he wanted to shove the whole moment behind us before I could look too closely at it. His voice was small. Rushed. Like he was embarrassed of his own instinct.
"Reed," I said again, softer now, "can you please look at me?"
And he did.
He turned his head—slowly—and when his eyes met mine, they weren't angry.
They were hollowed out with sadness. Like something inside him had quietly folded in on itself.
I bit down on my lip, hard, trying to keep myself from saying the wrong thing. Again.
"I got upset," I finally managed, "because you were having fun with someone else. Someone who wasn't me." I exhaled. "I know it sounds ridiculous. But nothing about what I feel around you has ever made sense."
He blinked slowly. "It was a woman, Lucien."
"I don't care," I said immediately. "A woman is still a potential."
He tilted his head slightly. "I've never been attracted to women. Ever."
"I know," I whispered, lowering my gaze. "You're talking rational. I'm not feeling rational."
He didn't reply.
The night felt very still, like even the wind had stepped back to give us space.
"I just… saw you out there. Leading. Laughing. Comfortable. And I realized I'd never seen you like that with anyone who wasn't me. And I hated how much I liked it. And I hated it more that I wasn't the reason for it."
"I only went because you shrugged," he said quietly.
"I shrugged because I didn't think you'd say yes."
He let out a breath that might've been a laugh. Or maybe it was a sigh in disguise.
I stayed there, crouched beside him, aching in the quiet. His hands were in his lap. Still. Guarded.
I wanted to reach for them, but something in me said: not yet.
So I just waited. With him. In the hush. I didn't try to fix it. I just stayed.