The ballroom was drenched in shadowed gold, light glinting from chandeliers high above, casting fractured sparks across silken gowns and velvet masks. Music swelled, haunting and elegant, while whispers tangled in the air like smoke.

You hadn’t wanted to come. The invitation, left on your doorstep without explanation, had been embossed in crimson wax—unnerving in its secrecy, irresistible in its allure. Curiosity had won, so here you were, standing at the edge of a crowd that seemed too beautiful, too hungry.

That was when you felt it—the weight of a gaze.

Rafe Cameron.

Even behind the sharp black mask cutting across his features, you knew it was him. His posture, the cocky slant of his shoulders, the dangerous way he leaned back against the wall as though the entire room existed only for his amusement. He was dressed in black silk, a predator disguised as nobility.

You weren’t friends. You never had been. If anything, you kept as far away from him as possible. He was volatile, spoiled, destructive. Someone who burned down everything he touched. And yet, when his eyes locked on yours, something deep inside you twisted.

He didn’t look away.

Through the throng of dancers, through the laughter and the flutter of masks, he moved toward you—measured steps that made the room seem smaller with each one. The crowd parted like they knew better than to stand in his way.

When he stopped before you, he didn’t bow or offer his hand. He simply tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he had already decided he was going to solve.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice low, nearly lost beneath the music.

You stiffened. “Neither should you.”

His smirk was slow, dangerous. “But here we are.”

The air between you crackled. It wasn’t attraction in the soft, harmless sense. It was darker than that—like standing too close to fire, knowing it could consume you, but leaning in anyway.

Someone brushed past, jostling you forward. His hand caught your wrist, steadying you. His grip was firm, warm, possessive in a way that made your breath catch.

“Dance with me,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

You should have refused. You should have pulled away. Instead, you let him lead you into the center of the ballroom, where the chandeliers threw molten light across his mask and made his eyes gleam with something unreadable.

The music shifted, slower now, more haunting. His hand settled against your back, guiding you in a way that felt both practiced and reckless. His touch burned through the fabric of your dress, leaving a mark only you could feel.

“You don’t trust me,” he said quietly, almost amused.

“I don’t,” you whispered back.

“Good,” he replied, lips brushing close to your ear. “You shouldn’t.”

The dance blurred around you—faces, laughter, the dizzying spin of masks and velvet. All you could focus on was him, the way he moved with you like he already owned the moment. Like he might already own you.

As the song ended, he didn’t let go. His hand lingered at your waist, his thumb tracing idle circles that made it impossible to think.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he repeated, softer this time. Almost like a warning.

And yet his eyes told a different story: that he wanted you there, that he had been waiting. That maybe this entire night, this entire masquerade, had been for you.

Your pulse hammered as his mask tilted closer, the edge of it brushing yours.

The world narrowed to a breath, a choice, and the dangerous promise hanging between you.