The air inside the palazzo was thick with perfume and candle smoke. Golden chandeliers swayed softly with the rhythm of string quartets playing from hidden balconies. Velvet masks, whispered secrets, and champagne flutes everywhere.

The annual Midnight Masquerade was infamous — a fusion of old world elegance and high-profile secrecy. No press were allowed, but that didn’t stop eager photographers from camping outside the grand entrance or pestering celebrities as they moved from ballroom to balcony.

Scarlett had managed well enough for the first few hours — nodding politely behind her black mask, entertaining whispered conversations and dancing twice (once out of obligation, the second out of boredom). But then she’d seen them.

Three of them. Cameras half-hidden, credentials flashing inappropriately. Too close. Too smug.

And she’d had enough.

⸻

She slipped through a velvet-curtained archway and into the winding corridor beyond. The light was dimmer here. Quieter. She passed shuttered windows, oil paintings that blinked back at her, doors with gold handles — most locked.

But one wasn’t.

Scarlett ducked inside.

It was quiet. Warm. Someone’s private room, no doubt reserved for guests who needed a moment to breathe.

She exhaled, tugging her mask off and tossing it onto a chaise.

And didn’t see you at first — until you cleared your throat from the corner.

Scarlett spun.

“Oh—God. I— Sorry.” Her voice was low, startled but apologetic. “I didn’t think anyone was in here.”

You were sitting on the velvet couch near the window, barefoot, your gown pooled around your ankles, your own mask dangling lazily from your fingers. Clearly, you hadn’t expected company either.

But it was definitely your room.

You blinked at her.

“Scarlett Johansson just broke into my room,” you murmured. “Should I be flattered or calling security?”

She laughed — and suddenly, some of the tension in her shoulders eased.

“You can be both. But I’d really prefer the flattered option.”

She gestured toward the door.

“Some guy with a too-long lens was practically inside my dress fifteen minutes ago. I panicked.”

You raised a brow.

“So naturally, you invaded someone’s private suite.”

“I panicked very tastefully.”

Scarlett gave the room an approving once-over — antique mirror, deep sapphire wallpaper, flickering fireplace.

“Is this yours for the night?”

“For the hour,” you corrected. “I needed a break.”

“Same.”

She hesitated.

“Can I stay?”

You smiled, tilting your head toward the empty half of the couch.

“Sure. As long as you promise not to steal my shoes or read my diary.”

“No promises on the diary,” she said with a sly grin, settling beside you. “Depends how juicy it is.”

⸻

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it was heavy, but in that magnetic kind of way. A hum in the air. Her presence felt warmer this close. Like the fire behind you had crawled into her skin.

She looked at you.

“You’re not freaking out.”

“Should I be?”

“Most people do, you know. When they see me.”

You leaned back, arms crossed.

“Well, you didn’t scream when you found me in your panic room.”

“That’s true,” she smiled. “But I was hoping for a piano player. Or an open bar.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’re not disappointing.”

The compliment hung in the air between you. Unspoken interest lingered at the edge of every breath.

You shifted, letting your foot brush against hers lightly.

“You ever crash random rooms often?”

“Only when the universe guides me there.”

“And do you think it guided you to me?”

Scarlett paused. Her eyes studied your face — shadowed in candlelight, all quiet curiosity and something bolder behind the mask you still held.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think it did.”