Page 169 of Damsel in Disguise

And somehow, in the middle of flashing neon lights, expensive liquor, and hundreds of strangers packed into a modern nightclub, we’re dancing as though we’ve stepped into an entirely different world.

As though he’s some immortal prince and I’m the only mundane woman he’s chosen from a crowded ballroom.

The rest of the club disappears, taking the people and the music along with it. Everything blurs into the background until there’s only him.

Alistair moves with effortless confidence—guiding without forcing, anticipating each of my steps correctly before I even take them. Every turn feels natural. Every shift feels seamless.

His hand remains steady against my waist as he leads me through the rhythm, his movements precise but unhurried.

There’s an elegance to him that no amount of alcohol seems capable of dulling.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask softly.

“My mother,” the softness is back in place, lasting for a fleeting moment.

The answer raises far more questions than it answers.

And somehow, watching him move me beneath the fractured neon glow of the club lights, I find myself wanting answers to every single one of them.

The crowd parts around us, being commanded by an invisible force, leaving us standing alone in the center of them all.

Flashes of cameras erupt from every direction.

Somewhere amidst the cheers and movement, the music shifts. The pounding bass gives way to something older. Something hauntingly timeless.

The flashing neon lights dim, bleeding into deep shades of crimson and gold until the entire club resembles a gothic ballroom torn from another century.

Someone passes him a white masquerade mask. It covers only half his face as he secures it into place.

The moment he gives me a dimpled smile wearing it, recognition crashes through me.

“In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came.

That voice which calls to me, and speaks my name.”

The Phantom of the Opera.

Suddenly, I love that I’m dressed entirely in white.

While beside me stands Alistair in black from head to toe, a silhouette wrapped in shadows and mystery, if not for the white mask contrasting his darkness.

“And do I dream again? For now I find,

The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind.”

Christine and the Phantom.

Our hands remain connected as the music swells.

He steps back. I step back. We’re perfectly synchronized.

The distance between us grows, yet the connection never breaks. Not for a single second.

His fingers guide. Mine follow.

The entire dance feels less like a performance and more like a surrender.

When he turns, I do.