IV

The San Francisco night sky blanketed the building with a faint glow of stars. Classical music plays softly, accompanying formal conversation and laughter that is quieter than the afternoon party.

The remaining guests were now exclusive circle heirs to business dynasties, investment partners, and a few figures who often graced the front pages of the world's economic magazines.

I sat at one of the tables near the corner, feeling like a stranger despite being from the same family.

Ben had brought Max home, just like I asked. I needed him away from all this intrigue. Without Max, I felt lighter but also a little bereft of the anchor that used to hold me together.

Jullian Warren sat across from me, dressed in a dark grey suit that was too perfect to look like a window display. He spoke at length about the ambitious projects his family managed, his face full of confidence. But all I could think was how monotonous his voice sounded. Every word that came out of his mouth felt like a business presentation. There was no spontaneity or warmth.

"...and I am confident that the collaboration between Warren Holdings and Romanov Corporation will be a great catalyst for the global economy," he said, taking a graceful sip of his wine.

I almost choked. That name—Romanov.

"Excuse me," I cut in, forcing a smile, "did you say Romanov Corporation?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Jullian looked pleased to have something to explain. "Pascha Romanov is one of our strategic partners. I heard that he just got engaged with Mikaela Morris. They make a wonderful couple. Just like in the classic stories."

My heart seemed to stop. I tried to keep a neutral face, but I felt sick to my stomach. The news hit me like a storm at sea. So he moved on.

Of course, he did.

With Mikaela Morris, of course.

Good for them.

Before I could reply or change the subject, the room lights dimmed. The music turned more rhythmic, and a waiter walked forward to make an announcement.

"Dear guests, we have a little surprise tonight. To add to the atmosphere, we are having a masquerade ball. Please choose your mask at the table in the corner of the room, and enjoy an night of mystery!"

I almost laughed. Of This lavish party had to have a dramatic touch.

Jullian raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "What an interesting idea. You're coming to this weird party, right, Belva?"

I wanted to refuse, but Miranda appeared from behind me, shoving a mask into my hands.

"Come on, Bell-Bell! This is the most fun part!" she said with a wide smile, her eyes twinkling.

I finally gave in, putting on a simple golden mask that covered most of my face. The music started to change again, and it became more relaxed this time, luring some of the guests to dance.

Miranda forcibly pulled Jullian onto the dance floor, and I let her. She set me free, she was still the most sensitive cousin. I found a small bar at the side of the room and decided to calm myself there from Julian Warren's talk, which was giving me a headache.

With a martini in hand, I sat on a bar stool, looking out at the crowd with mixed feelings. The alcohol warmed my body, but it wasn't enough to chase away the anxiety that continued to haunt me.

I took another sips. Enough to make my vision foggy.

"Alone at a party like this? That's unusual for a beautiful woman like you," a voice echoed from behind me.

I turned my head and saw a man standing, wearing a black mask with a minimalist design. His body was tall, with broad shoulders that instantly felt familiar. His black hair was messy in a natural-looking way, and the way he tilted his head reminded me of someone.

His voice, husky and low, had a soothing but piercing tone at the same time.

I chuckled, trying to hide my nervousness. "And you, do you work as a lifestyle consultant or just like commenting on strangers?"

He smiled faintly, then sat on the stool next to me. "Probably both."

We talked for a while, seemingly meaningless small talk. The alcohol in my blood made me more relaxed, too relaxed even. I started telling him some silly things, and he laughed in a way that felt strangely familiar.

When I finished the second glass, I felt myself getting a little tipsy.

I turned my eyes towards him, trying to guess who this man was. But the mask made him hard to recognise. Even his voice wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or my own mind at play— reminded me of someone who shouldn't be here.

"I feel like I've heard your voice before," I finally said, half-joking.

He didn't answer directly. Instead, he just smiled slightly, leaning his body closer to mine.  "Maybe we did meet," he replied in a mysterious tone.

I suddenly tensed up. A strange premonition crept into my chest, but I brushed it off, blaming the effects of the hangover. My mind must be playing tricks, I thought. After all, this was just a masquerade party. What could have happened?

::::

The San Francisco night sky remained a silent witness to the late party, but inside the ballroom, things were getting wild. The music flowed more sensually, and the crystal chandeliers reflected the glitter of the masks that hid the guests' identities.

I couldn't remember exactly when my conversation with the stranger had turned from lighthearted banter to something more intimate. My head felt heavy, my vision foggy, but I could still feel his approaching presence. His baritone voice filled every gap of silence between us, infiltrating my mind like a sweet poison that made me lose my logic.

His hand warmly touched the back of my hand on the bar table.

The touch was simple, but there was something in the way it made my blood flow faster. I knew I should have pulled away, but instead of doing so, I let his fingers play on my skin, painting invisible lines that were intoxicating.

"You look like someone who harbors a lot of thoughts," he whispered, his tone soft yet immersive.

I looked up, meeting a pair of eyes that lit up behind his mask. "Maybe I'm just drunk," I replied quietly, half-avoiding the intensity.

He smiled a small, barely noticeable smile. "Drunk or not, you look beautiful tonight."

My cheeks heat up. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the way he spoke, but I didn't care. In the blur of my thoughts, I laughed, a laugh that sounded more like a spoiled mumble than anything intentional.

He stood up, extending a hand. "Will you dance with me?"                                                    

I stared at him, my heart beating like a drum. With what was left of my sanity, I took his hand.

The music changed to a slower melody when we were on the dance floor. His strong arms wrapped around my waist while my hands rested on his shoulders. Every move felt like choreography designed to make me lose control. Close, too close.

"I feel weird," I murmured, my voice almost drowned out by the music.

He lowered his head slightly, whispering something in my ear. I wasn't sure what he was saying, but his intonation was more than enough to make me ignore logic completely.

The alcohol, the touch, and the atmosphere of this night are like a perfect combination that pulls me deeper into this vortex.

When our dance ends, he doesn't release his grip. Instead, he leads me out of the ballroom through a quieter corridor.

My heart skipped a beat, but I didn't say anything.

In one of the small rooms with large wooden doors, we stopped. I could hear my own heavy, irregular breathing. He was looking at me, or at least that's what I felt even though the mask still covered most of his face.

"I can leave now, if you want," he said.

I should have said yes, should have stepped back, but instead, I leaned closer. My hands touched his firm chest through his shirt, and I could feel his heartbeat matching mine.

"Don't," I whispered.

The man didn't wait any longer. He lowered his head, his lips touching mine gently at first but more and more intensely as time went on. My head was getting fuzzy, but my body responded without hesitation.

The night became a haze of warmth and passion. His every touch and kiss felt like something I never imagined I would experience again. There was no fear, just a momentary freedom amongst all the chaos that had always surrounded me.

However, amidst the silence afterwards, as I leaned against his arm with my breath still coming in, something whispered in my mind. His voice, the way he touched me, his presence— all of it felt too familiar.

His voice echoed in my mind, mingling with memories I didn't want to open.

But I was too tired, too drunk, to think about it further. For tonight, I let myself dissolve.

The darkness in my mind felt like a thick curtain hiding reality. The sensation came in waves like a storm hitting the shore without mercy.

Hot skin touching mine, large, strong hands creeping along my body, burning at every touch. His breath was heavy on my neck, and each exhaled like a fire that ignited something long and dormant within me.

I writhed, losing control of my own body. There were flashes of the dim lights of the party, the shadow of a face I couldn't quite make out.

His face was blurry, but the phoenix tattoo on his chest was clearly etched in my vague memory. I looked up, trying to seek reassurance, but my vision was blurred.

"Who are you?" I asked in a whisper, half-conscious.

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned down, kissing me in a way so intense that my body melted beneath him. It felt real, but my drunken mind kept protesting, calling this an illusion.

Everything blended together, like a nightmare merging with reality.

"This isn't real," I whispered to myself.

But the touch was too real, too intoxicating.

My night went on like an endless loop-touches, whispers, and emotions I couldn't understand.

Daylight seeped through the slits in the curtains, stabbing my eyes cruelly. I winced, feeling my body heavy and my head ringing like a big bell that had been hit too hard.

As I tried to move, I felt warm skin next to me.

I turned my head slowly, my breath catching as my eyes fell on the body of the man lying beside me. He was on his stomach, his head turned to the side, his hair slightly disheveled, and the phoenix tattoo I saw last night was now fully visible on his bare chest, with his right arm stretched over my stomach, hugging me tightly.

It felt like the world had stopped spinning.

My chest felt tight, and my hands came up to cover my mouth, which was open in shock.

Pascha Romanov.

"No," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "No way."