Chapter One - Seraphina
Izzy hooks her arm through mine, leaning in close, the scent of her floral perfume overwhelming in the crush of bodies. I can tell she’s in her element; her laugh is brighter, her shoulders thrown back, already scanning the crowd for someone interesting. She looks perfect for this world—hair in soft waves, lips painted dark, mask edged in gold.
My own mask is simpler, black velvet, a little too snug at the temples. I can already feel the elastic digging a line above my ear.
The room hums with money. Real money. I can feel it in the way people move, slow and languid, certain the party will never end. Every glance is a calculation.
I try to slip behind Izzy as we move further inside, letting her absorb the attention. Her dress catches the light, emerald silk rippling with each step, and I’m just the friend tagging along, invisible if I try hard enough.
Someone bumps my shoulder. It’s a man in a tuxedo, drink already half gone. He mutters an apology, but his eyes skip right past me. I’m not the kind of woman these people notice. Not tonight. Not ever.
Izzy disappears into a knot of guests, all laughter and champagne flutes, and for a second, panic flickers in my chest. I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror: hair scraped up, skin ghost-pale in the overhead light, black mask stark against my face. I look like I’m hiding something. Maybe I am. I tug at the hem of my dress, trying to remember why I let Izzy talk me into this.
There’s a tray of drinks circling the edge of the ballroom. I take a glass, more for something to do with my hands than any real desire for champagne. The flute is cold against my palm, condensation slick between my fingers.
A string quartet plays from the mezzanine, something old and lush. Couples swirl across the marble, steps smooth and practiced. I can pick out the regulars; people who grew up in rooms like this, who know how to glide instead of walk. My shoes pinch harder with every step, the band digging into the soft skin just above my heel. I force myself to keep moving.
My gaze keeps drifting toward the far end of the hall, where the crowd is thickest. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—an exit, maybe. A place to breathe. Then I feel it, a prickle along the back of my neck. Someone watching. The feeling lingers, electric and unwelcome.
I drain my champagne in two gulps, letting the burn ground me. The orchestra’s song is ending; applause crackles like static. I scan the crowd for Izzy, but she’s vanished again, swallowed up by sequins and laughter.
I’m alone, mask tight, nerves singing. I can still feel those eyes on me, steady and unblinking, from somewhere just out of sight.
Izzy loops back, latching on to my wrist with sticky-sweet fingers. “Come on, Sera, don’t lurk. You look like you’re casing the joint.”
I manage a smile. “Maybe I am. Feels weird being here.”
She rolls her eyes, tugging me into a cluster of strangers. There are two women, one man, all dripping in diamonds and silk. Names spiral past my ears: Madeline, Dimitri, something hyphenated that’s lost the second it’s spoken. Everyone’s voice has the same polished cadence, sentences sliding past without ever touching the floor.
Izzy gestures. “This is Sera, my favorite hermit. Dragged her out by force. Aren’t you proud?”
A chorus of polite laughter. The taller woman tips her head. “So, Sera, what do you do?”
I brace myself. “Data analysis. For a consulting firm.”
Their smiles freeze for a half beat, just enough for me to see the quick recalculation behind their eyes. One nods, then pivots to discuss an art auction with Izzy, leaving me clutching my champagne like a lifeline.
A man with a silver tie leans closer, voice pitched low. “First time at one of these?”
Is it that obvious? “Is it that bad?”
He grins, sharp and knowing. “No, it’s refreshing. Most people here only talk to each other to climb to the next rung. You actually look like you want to leave.”
“Guilty,” I say, and he laughs, but his eyes already wander back to the woman at his side. I fade, as people like me always do at events like this.
Izzy is radiant. She flirts effortlessly, laughter curling around her words as she squeezes the forearm of the man with the silver cuff links. I watch as she drops his name—Tristan, maybe—and he leans in, charmed. They talk about a gallery opening.
Izzy’s voice rises, warm and musical.
I hover just outside the glow, fingers tightening around my glass. The conversation shifts, circles back, leaves me trailing behind. The floor is cold beneath my toes, marble unforgiving. I wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped away for good.
The crowd parts and swells, exposing brief pockets of silence. I watch a woman in a beaded gown whisper to her companion, a flick of her wrist sending a diamond earring spinning. Another man laughs too loudly, then checks over his shoulder, as if remembering who might be listening.
The air is thick with perfume, sweat, and old money. Underneath it all is a tension that prickles at my skin. I can see the power shifting, alliances forming, crumbling, repairing themselves all within the space of a laugh. Izzy fits, radiant and self-assured. I don’t.
She catches my gaze and mouths,“Breathe.”I try. It doesn’t work.
A fresh wave of guests arrives, faces half hidden behind jeweled masks. The string quartet shifts into a waltz, applause ripples, and couples take to the floor, swirling in perfect synchrony. My own feet ache, toes cramping in borrowed heels. I wonder if I’ll ever get the pinched feeling out of my chest.
