I reach the bar and ask for water. The bartender nods without comment, even though everyone else is half in the bag. I take a sip, grounding myself. The silk of the dress is warm now, my skin acclimated, my nerves steady.
And then the room subtly rearranges itself.
It’s not dramatic. No announcement. No sudden hush. Just a gentle redirection of attention, like iron filings shifting toward a magnet. Conversations soften. Laughter lowers half a notch. I follow the movement without turning my head.
Damian Baylock stands near the far wall, half in shadow, speaking to no one. That alone tells me everything. Men likehim are rarely unattended unless they want to be. His posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, gaze sweeping the room with mild interest.
I don’t look at him directly. Not yet.
I watch reflections instead—mirrors, glass, the polished surface of a piano. His presence anchors the room. People orbit him without realizing it. Even Jason angles toward him instinctively, like his father’s approval is still a gravitational force.
I feel something settle in my chest. This is where it starts. My revenge.
I shift my position just enough to enter his peripheral vision. Not approaching. Not retreating. Existing where I can’t be ignored without effort.
He doesn’t look at me, but the space between us tightens anyway. I take another sip of water and wait. Timing is everything.
I give it time.
That’s the hardest part—resisting the urge to do something when doing nothing is the sharper move. I let the party breathe around me, let minutes pass, let patterns repeat. People grow looser as the champagne flows. Masks tilt. Laughter sharpens or softens depending on who’s listening.
If the party continues happily, Jason will never see this coming.
I become part of the scenery. The woman in red who dances and then disappears. The woman who stands at the edge of conversations and then slips away before names are exchanged. I’m memorable without being traceable.
Jason notices me again.
This time it’s not a glance—it’s a pause. His gaze lingers too long, his smile falters. I feel it like a tug between my shoulders. He’s trying to place me. Trying to reconcile instinct with logic. But I’ve cut my hair and styled it differently. I never wore red when we were together, because I hated it. I wear a fake tattoo on my arm—a twirl of ivy. He knows my body, but tonight, I’m someone else.
I turn just as he looks, letting the light catch my hair, my mouth, the curve of my cheek beneath the mask. His breath stutters. He looks away fast, as if scalded.
Faith follows his gaze a second too late. Her eyes slide over me without recognition, then move on. She trusts the room. Trusts the mask. Trusts that nothing here can hurt her.
That trust is going to be very expensive.
I drift toward the staircase, not to climb it, just to exist near it. It’s a focal point—people pass through whether they mean to or not. I pause at the base, pretending to adjust the strap of my heel, aware of every line of sight converging on this space.
And that’s when I feel it. His attention.
I don’t need to see Damian Baylock to know he’s aware of me now. The air changes the way it does when someone important decides to observe rather than participate. I catch him in a mirror—just a fraction of his reflection—but it’s enough. His gaze is steady, assessing, lingering longer than politeness requires.
I don’t meet it.
I tilt my head back in laughter at something no one said. Let the red of my dress catch the light as I straighten. Let myself be seen as an image, not a person. Something interesting. Something undefined.
I move away before his curiosity can turn into action. I keep it moving to keep him on his toes, circling my prey.
The house tightens as midnight approaches. It’s subtle at first—conversations shorten, people check their watches, glasses are topped off more frequently. Couples begin to gravitate toward each other, bodies angling inward, anticipation humming just beneath the music. The masquerade is about to shift from spectacle to intimacy, and everyone can feel it.
I stay still.
Stillness draws attention in a room full of motion.
I position myself where the sight lines converge, close enough to be unavoidable without appearing intentional. I let my weight settle into one hip, let the red silk skim my long legs when I move. I don’t fidget. I don’t search the crowd for someone I might know.
I wait.
Jason and Faith drift closer as the countdown begins, pulled in by gravity and tradition. He slips an arm around her, possessive without realizing it. She tilts her head up toward him, trusting, radiant. They look like a future that everyone already accepts.
