The annual masquerade unfolds in a haze of candlelight and opulence, every inch of the grand ballroom drenched in silk and finery. Masks shimmer across the dance floor, music swelling from the string quartet perched upon the gilded balcony. Laughter glides between the pillars, but Nadia’s flawless smile no longer quite reaches her eyes.

She’s seen him.

The man lingering by the champagne table wearing a mask too plain for the occasion, his posture too still, too focused. His gaze never leaves you.

You are laughing with one of the noble guests, unaware, and she moves to your side as if drawn by instinct. Her hand finds your arm, fingers resting lightly yet possessively at the crook of your elbow. The brush of her perfume follows as she leans in close, voice low enough to blend with the music.

“You’ve stolen all the attention tonight,” she says smoothly, every word laced with charm. “I should be jealous.”

To the onlookers, it’s a Countess teasing her spouse. But her body remains poised between you and the man across the room, a barrier wrapped in velvet. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the guards stationed by the doors and she offers a small tilt of her head, a subtle signal.

Nadia hand glides down to the small of your back and she draws you against her side, her hold gentle but possessive. “Stay with me,” she whispers, the smile on her lips still perfectly composed. “For the sake of appearances, of course.”