What even was that? A dare turned full-blown make-out session? I let him touch me in ways no one ever had—and like some giddy teenager, I wrapped my legs around a stranger.
No… not a stranger.
The same man who kissed me breathless behind a marble pillar, then vanished without a name.
How did I miss those eyes? Matt has the same piercing blue eyes as the masquerade stranger. The clues were there—I just didn’t see them.
I’m mortified enough to spontaneously combust.
I retreat to the restroom, splash cold water on my face, and redo my bun with trembling fingers.
When I step back into the corridor, Matt is already jogging toward me—hoodie back on, hair mussed, eyes full of something dangerously close to regret.
“Nora, please, let me explain—”
“Save it.” My whisper cuts sharper than I expected. “You’re late for your power diagrams.” I shoulder past, forcing calm steps toward the stairwell. I hear him call my name again but door hinges swallow the rest.
I walk home in a blur, each step thudding out the same relentless refrain: How could I be so stupid?He’s a player—plain and simple—collecting women to serve whatever game he’s running. I wasprobably just a blip on his radar, an amusing footnote:Look, the masquerade girl—let’s see if she’s clueless enough not to recognize me.
Maybe he even placed a bet with his buddies. The thought makes my stomach turn.
He had to know from the start, didn’t he?
Did he orchestrate that “accidental” reunion?
And if he did… why?
Is he some unhinged stalker setting elaborate traps?
The questions spin faster and faster, each one heavier than the last.
I keep seeing his mouth—soft, insistent, coaxing my defenses open—and the crash of humiliation hits all over again.
I prided myself on reading people, on cataloguing motives the way I file novels, yet somehow I still ended up here.
Mostly, though, I’m furious at myself. Furious that I mistook the thrill of beingwantedfor the comfort of beingsafe. Furious that the very pages I shelve every day—stories about discerning truth from performance—failed to warn me in time.
I won’t make that mistake again. The next chapter is mine to write, and the first rule on page one will be simple: no man gets to author my plot without my explicit consent, no matter how artfully he wields a storm-cloud tattoo or a kiss in the dark.
***
Our favorite booth sits beneath a neon cherry pie sign that’s never been replaced—everyone agrees the flickering bulb is part of its charm.
Emily’s already there, the flu behind her, tissues tucked up one sleeve like peace offerings. She actually looks like a living person again.
The moment she spots me, she waves down the waiter and orders my usual herbal tea.
“You look like you just lost a cage match with fate,” she says when I slide onto the vinyl seat.
“In three rounds,” I mumble.
“Charity event meeting didn’t go well?”
“Oh, it went,” I sigh, dumping my clipboards and cardigan in a defeated heap. “It ended with me kissing a ‘stranger’ who isn’t a stranger at all.”
Emily frowns, then lifts a shrewd eyebrow. “Define ‘not a stranger’”
I lower my voice while the waiter sets down my mug. “The guy from today’s crew? Same man who kissed me at the masquerade.”
