The music pulsed through the air like a living thing — low, sensual, dangerous. Lustre wasn’t just another nightclub; it was a kingdom hidden behind velvet curtains and shadows, a place where the city’s elite came to lose names, faces, and inhibitions. The chandeliers glowed like captive stars above the marble floor, and the scent of money, perfume, and sin hung heavy in the air.
Gabrielle Serenity sat draped across a velvet booth with her friends, laughter bubbling around her like champagne. Her mask was silver and minimal — elegant, deliberately understated — letting the soft shimmer of her skin and the calm in her eyes do the talking. They’d been at it for hours now, a reckless spiral of dares and drinks, each round worse than the last. And though she laughed with them, part of her stayed detached — watching, thinking, letting the pulse of the room wash over her like heat.
Then one of her friends leaned forward, grin wicked and voice raised above the music. “Alright, Gabby,” she said, waving her glass toward the balcony above them, “see him?”
Gabrielle turned her head, following the gesture — and froze.
High above, in a private balcony of gold-trimmed shadow, a man sat with the kind of stillness that demanded attention. Broad-shouldered, posture unshaken, his mask was black and smooth as obsidian. He didn’t fidget, didn’t watch the crowd — yet somehow controlled every inch of it. Two men stood nearby, silent and sharp, dressed in matching suits. One leaned in to whisper something, and even through the hum of the bass, Gabrielle caught the reply:
“Yes, My Lordship.”
The words rolled through her like thunder. They weren’t playful or ironic; they were reverent. She’d heard of men like that — the kind who owned everything in their orbit, including the fear they inspired. Her gaze lingered longer than it should have, and even at this distance, she felt it — that invisible pressure, the sense of being noticed before a single glance was exchanged.
Her friend smirked. “I dare you to go up there,” she said, the grin widening, “ask him for his number… and sit on his lap.”
The group burst into laughter, loud and tipsy, but Gabrielle’s focus didn’t waver. She could still hear the words My Lordship echoing faintly in her head. Maybe it was the champagne, or maybe it was curiosity — that dangerous itch that always got her into trouble — but something in her wanted to see who he really was beneath that title.
She rose from the booth, movements slow and graceful, like someone who already knew she was being watched. “Fine,” she murmured, adjusting the strap of her dress as her friends screamed their disbelief. “A dare’s a dare.” The staircase loomed ahead, guarded by one of the suited men she’d seen earlier. He didn’t stop her — only looked at her mask, then stepped aside. A silent invitation. Up close, the man exuded power in a way that didn’t need to be spoken. His eyes followed her approach, dark and unreadable behind the mask. She could feel them on her skin, steady and assessing, as though he were deciding whether to speak — or simply have her escorted out. The title made sudden, terrifyingThe music was steady, the kind that made the floor hum under every step. From her booth, Gabrielle could see him — the man her friends had pointed out. He sat alone on the balcony, leaning back in a black suit, mask plain and dark. Two men stood near him, both serious, both watching the crowd. One leaned in to speak, and she caught the words clearly this time: “Yes, My Lordship.”
Her friends laughed about it, guessing who he might be. She didn’t say anything, just got up and started walking. The booth went silent for a few seconds, then filled with whispers and muffled laughter as she crossed the floor.
The guard at the staircase looked her over, then stepped aside without a word. The music faded as she climbed. The upstairs lights were lower — softer, gold against dark walls. He didn’t move when he saw her. Just looked.
She stopped in front of his table. “Can I get your number?”
No hesitation, no smile.
He stared at her