1
PERRY
My ex-boyfriend calledme a gold-digger once. But he wouldn’t attract gold-diggers if his family didn’t hoard all the gold.
The Baylock estate rises out of the dark like it belongs here more than the mountains do, all stone and light and quiet confidence. Heat spills from the windows, gold against the snow, and for a moment, I stand at the edge of the drive, letting it soak in. The silence. The scale. The certainty that everyone inside knows exactly why they’re here.
I don’t want to see Jason ever again, but I step forward anyway.
The dress under my coat is impractical and wildly out of budget. I bought it knowing that. Bought it because Jason once told me red made me unforgettable. Bought it because I want him to remember me tonight, even if he doesn’t know why.
He won’t know, thanks to the mask. Black lace, delicate enough to suggest mystery, structured enough to hide the sharp angles of my face. No one here can know who I am.
I don’t get invited to the Baylock estate anymore.
A masked attendant takes my coat, and I pass my fake invitation to the other masked attendant. No one questions it. The invitations are set aside so Jason’s grandmother can write thank-you notes for those who showed up.
Warmth wraps around me, the smell of champagne and polished wood and money that’s never been questioned. Music drifts through the air, low and indulgent, encouraging bodies to sway instead of think. I take a glass from a passing tray and let my eyes adjust.
The Baylocks don’t do subtle. Crystal chandeliers hang like constellations. Marble floors gleam. Portraits of men with the same bone structure line the walls, generation after generation of confidence passing itself down like inheritance.
No one looks twice at me. Masks are permission not to ask.
I move with the crowd, slow and unhurried, letting myself be seen without being examined. The dress does its work. So does my posture. Head high. Shoulders back. Like I have somewhere I’m meant to be.
And then I see them.
Jason stands near the grand staircase, his arm loose around Faith’s waist. My sister glows in pale fabric, her hair swept up, her smile effortless. She looks happy. He looks relieved, like everything finally fell into place the moment I was removed from the equation.
My chest tightens, but I don’t stop. I didn’t come here to confront them. I didn’t come here to cry in a bathroom or throw a drink. I’m not here to cause a scene. That embarrassment would last for minutes.
My revenge plan will last for the rest of his life.
I drift past them, close enough to hear Jason laugh. Close enough to catch Faith’s perfume. He doesn’t recognize me. She doesn’t either. The mask does its job, and the universe, for once, keeps its mouth shut.
Good.
I step deeper into the house, letting the noise and movement settle around me. Tonight isn’t about impulse. It isn’t about heartbreak or rage, no matter how much of that I carry. And I have all the time in the world.
So I stop thinking like a guest and start thinking like a problem.
The first pass is reconnaissance. I let the champagne glass rest in my hand untouched while I learn the rhythm of the room. Where the staff enters and exits. Which doors stay closed. Which guests drift in predictable loops and which ones cut against the current. Power leaves fingerprints if you know where to look.
The Baylocks know how to host. That’s obvious. What’s less obvious is how much of the party is theater. Security blends into the background, dressed just well enough to pass as guests, positioned just far enough apart to make escape inconvenient if someone were attacked. Nothing overt. Nothing sloppy.
I move along the perimeter, not lingering anywhere long enough to be remembered. A column offers cover. A velvet-backed chair gives me a place to pause. I adjust my mask like it’s slipping, tilt my head like I’m listening, laugh softly at nothing at all. I look like a woman enjoying herself.
I’m not. I’m counting.
Balconies overlook the main hall. Hallways branch off into quieter wings—private rooms, studies, places where conversations change tone. Two staircases. One grand, meant to be seen. One narrower, half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting some long-dead ancestor who probably thought he was untouchable. All the Baylocks think they’re untouchable. Historically, they’re right.
Until tonight.
Jason and Faith drift in and out of my awareness like background noise. I don’t seek them out, but I don’t avoid them either. Avoidance would be obvious. Instead, I let the house do the work for me, allowing the crowd to funnel us near each other and then apart again.
Jason glances my way once. Just once. His brow furrows, the faintest crease of unease. He looks away before the thought finishes forming.
Good. Let that itch sit, cheater.
