The invitation arrived on thick ivory card, sealed with gold wax and a crest everyone in their world recognized. Events like this weren’t just parties—they were performances. Carefully staged, meticulously attended, and watched by the kind of people who remembered everything.

Marcus Lopez had been to dozens.

But tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the masquerade theme—black-tie, hidden identities, glittering chandeliers casting shadows across silk and marble. Or maybe it was the fact that she would be there.

He adjusted the cuff of his suit as he stepped into the ballroom, his mask—matte black with subtle gold detailing—sitting perfectly against his face. Music drifted through the room, something classical but softened, modernized. Couples moved in slow, deliberate circles. Laughter echoed. Glasses clinked.

Marcus stood beside his parents, posture straight, expression composed, every bit the son they expected him to be.

Across from them stood your family.

The conversation between the two sets of parents flowed easily—too easily. Polite laughter, subtle remarks about business, investments, upcoming events. The kind of conversation that sounded light but carried weight underneath every word.

He barely heard any of it.

Because you were standing right there.

Just a step away, beside your own parents, your hands loosely clasped in front of you. Your dress was a deep blue, rich and understated, the fabric catching the light every time you shifted. Your mask was elegant, edged in gold, but it didn’t hide the way your eyes flickered toward him every few seconds.

Then away again.

Like you weren’t supposed to be looking.

Like he wasn’t supposed to notice.

Marcus’ jaw tightened slightly.

“…it would make sense, given how aligned our interests are,” Your father was saying.

His mother nodded. “I agree. There’s a lot of potential there.”

Potential.

He almost smiled at the word.

Because they weren’t just talking about business.

They never were.

Marcus’ gaze shifted—just slightly—back to you.

You caught it this time.

And instead of looking away, you held it. For a second too long.

“—Marcus,” His father’s voice cut in suddenly, sharp enough to pull him back. “You remember—”

“Yes,” Marcus said smoothly, before the sentence could even finish. He didn’t look away from you. “Of course.”

Your mother smiled approvingly, clearly satisfied with the interaction, before turning back to the conversation.

The moment passed.

Their parents continued, completely absorbed.

Marcus slowly side stepped behind the four adults, moving cautiously so no one would notice. He stopped beside you.

“…of course, it would be beneficial for both sides—”

He let his hand drop casually to his side. Closer to yours. Not touching.

Not yet.

You’re very quiet,” He said softly.

“So are you.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re not.”

He glanced at you again, a flicker of something sharper in his expression.

“Neither are you.”

Another pause settled between them, heavier now.

“I hate all of this.” You admitted eventually. “The fact that they think they can decide everything.”

“Me too.” Marcus agreed.

“…we should arrange something later this summer,” Your father offered, his tone smooth, measured. “A more private gathering.”

Marcus’ mother smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Then your hand shifted—just slightly—at your side.

Closer to his.

Connor felt it before he fully registered it.

The lightest brush of your fingers against his.

It was accidental. It had to be. Except—

You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

Your hands stayed like that, barely touching, hidden by the fall of fabric and the careful positioning of your bodies.

Invisible to everyone else.