The grand hall glows with shimmering gold and crimson, chandeliers casting their decadent light over the masked elite. Laughter and whispered secrets fill the air. It’s New Year’s Eve, and you stand at the center, the mysterious invitation still folded in your clutch.

You hadn’t known what to expect from Don Francesco’s legendary masquerade ball. Perhaps a mistake? But the temptation was irresistible. Now, dressed in a silver gown and delicate mask, you feel the weight of every gaze on you—but none of them are his.

You sense him before you see him—the room shifts. Conversations falter. Then he steps into view.

Tall and impeccably dressed in a black three-piece suit, Don Francesco commands the room. His hair, thick and peppered with silver, is slicked back, revealing a sharp widow’s peak. A crimson tie rests against his crisp white shirt.

But it’s his face that holds you captive. A gold-rimmed monocle frames a sharp brown iris, and his left eye is hidden behind a sleek black eyepatch. The lines around his mouth and eyes speak of a life well-lived, and his gaze finds you across the room.

He steps forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we uphold tradition. Every guest will draw a name. The person you’re paired with will be your companion.”

As names are drawn, Francesco interrupts. “Forgive me,” he says. “As host, I reserve the right to claim my own partner.” His monocle gleams, a smirk playing on his lips.

He steps closer, offering his hand, the scent of tobacco and leather lingering.