Enter

The ballroom is a sea of shimmering silks and polished marble, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume, wilted lilies, and champagne. A string quartet plays a waltz that floats above the murmur of a hundred conversations, a delicate sound trying and failing to impose grace on the room's simmering ambition. Ava's hand is a cool anchor on your arm, her blue feathered mask a fragment of the night sky against the opulent gold and crimson of the hall.

"John, there's Gerald," she murmurs, her nod almost imperceptible toward a portly man with a flushed face, perspiration dotting his brow. "His hedge fund took a beating last quarter. Smile, but don't get stuck."

You steer her into the flow, your smiles plastered on, your feet moving with the practiced ease of someone who has navigated these waters before. You nod. You make small talk about the markets, about a new piece of legislation, about the appalling state of the local golf course. You are a caricature of success, a hollow man playing his part.

Then you see them. A vortex of pure, unadulterated platinum blonde. An older man, maybe sixty, with skin like tanned leather and a grin full of veneers, stands with two women who could be sisters. One, clearly the wife, is poured into a silver gown that clings to every surgically-perfected curve. Her mask is a simple silver strip, doing nothing to hide her ageless, expressionless face. The other, younger blonde, has her hair in a sophisticated chignon, but her eyes hold a flicker of sharp, weary intelligence that her mother's lack entirely. She wears a tasteful black dress, her only adornment a simple diamond necklace and a black velvet mask that emphasizes the pale blue of her eyes.

"John, darling," the older man booms, clapping you on the shoulder with a bone-rattling force. "Barrett Sterling. We met at the foundation dinner. My wife, Candace. And my daughter, Blair."

You make the appropriate noises. Your eyes, however, are betraying you. They flicker from the cool, composed challenge in Blair's eyes to the flawless, hollow beauty of her mother, Candace. You see the dynamic, the transaction. The old king and his two prizes. A familiar, sick power thrums in your blood. You shake Barrett's hand, your grip firm, your mind a million miles away, cataloging the women, the situation, the possibilities.

"Candace," you say, kissing her proffered hand. Her skin is cool and smooth. "Blair. A pleasure."

"The pleasure is all ours," Blair says, her voice a low, cultured purr. Her gaze lingers on you for a fraction of a second too long, a spark of something knowing and dismissive in her eyes. She sees you. Not the mask, not the tux, but the rot underneath.

Ava's grip on your arm tightens, a subtle, warning pressure. "Excuse us," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "I just saw Isabella."

You let her steer you away, a current of relief warring with a pang of disappointment. And then you see her. Isabella. She's standing by a towering ice sculpture of a phoenix, one hip jutting out, her champagne flute held like a weapon. Her dress is emerald green, a slash of vibrant color in the sea of muted tones, and her mask is a cascade of peacock feathers that frames her striking dark eyes. She sees you, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across her lips. The woman who made Kyler's problem disappear with a few phone calls. The woman from your past. A very spicy Latina who almost stole your heart in college.

She moves to intercept you, her walk a confident, liquid glide. "John," she says, her voice a low, intimate caress that cuts through the room's noise. "Ava. You look stunning."

"As do you, Izzy," Ava replies, her smile polite but strained. You feel the history between them, the unspoken rivalry.

Isabella's attention, however, is entirely on you. Her eyes, dark and brilliant behind her mask, rove over your face. "It's been too long. I was just thinking about that summer. The beach house. That horrible tequila." She laughs, a husky, suggestive sound. "Some things never change, do they? You still look like you're carrying the world's weight on your shoulders."

"That's me," you manage, your throat dry. "Responsible."

"Maybe too responsible," she purrs, stepping closer, her perfume a cloud of jasmine and spice. "Sometimes you just need to let go. Be... impulsive." Her gloved finger trails down your lapel, a feather-light touch that sets your skin on fire. "If you ever need a reminder how, you know my number."

You play cat and mouse with her. Your eyes telling her how badly you'll fuck her but your words. "Come on Izzy I only have eyes for one woman tonight."

Ava's tug on your arm is no longer subtle. It's a command. "We should find the kids," she says, her voice dangerously bright. "It's getting crowded."

You allow yourself to be pulled away, feeling Isabella's gaze on your back like a physical touch. "Of course," you say to Ava, your mind reeling. "Jason. Kyler. Elsa."

You navigate the throng, your smile now a grimace, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. You scan faces, masks, looking for a familiar shape, a flash of your children's hair. But the ballroom is a labyrinth of beautiful strangers. You find a few of Jason's friends near the dessert table, laughing with a group of girls, but Jason is nowhere to be seen. You do a full circuit, a desperate, growing panic rising in your chest. Kyler. Elsa. They are ghosts in this machine. Swallowed by the night.

"They're probably just exploring the grounds," Ava says, her logic a thin shield against your rising dread. But you can hear the worry in her own voice. In a room full of people, you and your wife are completely, terrifyingly alone. "Should we split up."

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