Protein shake from the refrigerator, the vanilla one that tastes like a promise someone made and only technically kept. I shake it, open it, drink half of it standing at the counter and grimace at the temperature because I forgot to take it out last night and cold protein shakes at 7:53 AM are one of life's more reliable disappointments.
I grab my jacket.
I'm at the door.
I stop.
The kitchen island is directly in my sightline from the door. The coin is there, gold and patient, right where I left it. And beside it, the envelope, still sealed, beige and official, waiting with the specific energy of something that has been waiting all night and is prepared to continue waiting indefinitely, but would prefer not to.
You said you'd open it when you were less exhausted.
You are still exhausted.
You have six minutes.
I go back to the kitchen island.
I pick up the envelope.
The first thing I notice is the seal—pressed into dark green wax on the back flap, a four-leaf clover design that is not the standard government adhesive but something deliberate.Embossed. The kind of seal that belongs on correspondence that knows it's important and wants you to know it too before you've even opened it. The wax is cool under my thumb, perfectly intact, and the clover in it is detailed in a way that a stamp produces rather than a label. Someone made a choice about this.
Okay.
That's different.
I break the seal carefully—not tearing, sliding my thumb underneath the edge and lifting clean. Inside is a single card of heavy cream paper, the kind that has weight and intention, and when I unfold it the print is in a deep forest green ink that I've never seen on government correspondence before. Ever.
I read the first line.
Then I read it again.
Dearest Gentle Omega?—
My mouth opens.
No.
It did not just start with Dearest Gentle Omega.
Like Bridgerton. Like the actual show. Like whoever wrote this sat down, turned on Netflix, took notes, and committed.
I press my lips together. I want to cringe. The cringe is fully formed and ready to deploy, a whole-body reaction to formal correspondence that opens like a period drama, and I hold it at bay through sheer curiosity because despite everything my eyes are already on the second line and the second line is?—
Different.
I read the whole thing standing at the kitchen island with my jacket half-on and my protein shake going warm in my other hand and six minutes until I'm supposed to be somewhere.
Then I read it again.
The Lucky Clover Society cordially invites you to attend its first annual St. Patrick's Masquerade—a private, curated evening hosted in honor of the Omega community of OakridgeHollows and the surrounding regions. Venue and precise address enclosed separately upon confirmation of attendance. Dress code: formal, emerald encouraged. All attendees will be provided a masquerade mask upon arrival.
I lower the card slightly.
A masquerade.
Everyone masked.
I think about what that means for a moment. No faces, or at least—not the whole face. The kind of anonymity that makes a room feel different. Where you're not walking in as yourself-with-history, as Mila-with-the-debt and Mila-with-the-failed-pack, but as a person in a mask at a candlelit ball, which is either deeply appealing or completely absurd, and I'm not sure which yet.
