Page 5 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

As she continues, I drift off, thinking back to a time when alcohol and parties were the order of my life. The time when my life wasn’t mine, and I was forced to be a perfect little puppet for Father. Until he died, and I took charge of my life, taking a loan from Bella, my twin, to start the Elané beauty line.

Four years later, I’m doing better than I ever thought. I’ve built my own community, a massive following of loyal supporters who’d follow me into battle if I promised them a discount code.

Suddenly, a warm liquid seeps through my clothes, pulling me out of my thoughts. I look down and see that Puddles just peed on me. Great. Just fucking great.

I sigh, setting him down on the floor. It’s my own fault; I haven’t had time to potty train him yet.

“You know what?” I cut into Annora’s rant. “I’ll go.”

The squeal she lets out on the other end of the call is loud enough to rattle my eardrums. I pull the phone away, grimacing.

“Dress sexy and be sure to get laid. I heard sex helps with frustration.”

“Of course, Annora. You read more books on sex than you do financial ledgers,” I respond, as my mind immediately drifts to what I should wear.

Oh, I know just the dress. I picked it from Zimmermann’s latest limited-edition collection. I get up and reach into my closet for the sleeveless, wine-colored dress. It has a dangerous slit that goes all the way up to my hip bone.

“Thanks, Annora. Bye!”

I hang up before she can argue that reading a lot of erotica would help her have amazing sex on her first time.

Puddles stares back at me from my feet, tongue lolling, blissfully unaware of my quarterly projections and masquerade problems.

I exhale. This is one of the very few times I’ll attend an event for the sole purpose of pleasure…not networking. And that floods me with memories of my past life again. I’m undeniably a better version of myself now. But Annora is still right. Maybe I do need a break… and some good dick?

***

Masque Noire is hosted in an old, restored cathedral in downtown. Ironically dramatic for a party that insists on secrecy. Black stone walls stretch upward, as if looming into the sky, and as I step out of the car, cold air bites through my coat.

The music hits first as I step in. The entire place is trembling with deep, reverberating bass. The ceiling disappears into shadow, replaced by floating chandeliers dripping with dark crystals that scatter light like falling stars.

And as promised, everyone is masked.

Not the cheap kind. These are works of art: feathers, gold filigree, matte obsidian, and lace. Velvet curtains divide the space into pockets of secrecy.

Young men dressed in black tuxedos, wearing plain black masks, float around holding trays laden with wine, champagne, and cocktails.

As I slip into the crowd, the anonymity is intoxicating.

For the first time in months, no one is looking twice at me. There are no forced smiles or obligatory small talks. Just bodies moving together, strangers brushing past strangers, everyone opening themselves up to the many pleasures the night has to offer.

My phone buzzes in my hand, snapping me back to reality. It’s a text from Annora.

ANNORA: You look hot, I know it. I think you should also try this new monkey sex style I read in a blog. It’s basically doggy but on steroids…

I quickly close the message, shaking my head. Annora sure knows how to give bad ideas.

When we first met at a professional event in New Jersey, I’d thought she was a really calm person. I mean she is a cool headed accountant, but she’s equally fierce and always ready with an opinion, whether anyone asks for it or not.

A waiter stops in front of me, and I grab a glass of amber liquor. I take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle in, and finally help me relax.

That’s when I feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. It’s not leering or invasive. It’s…assessing. Measured. Like I’m being studied rather than consumed.

I turn around, and there he is.

He stands a few feet away, untouched by the chaos around him. Tall, his broad shoulders filling out the crisp white shirt like it was tailored for his body. His arms are bare, sleeves rolled up just enough to expose rugged muscle and tan skin.

His mask is deceptively plain. Black and sharp-edged, revealing a stern mouth and a strong jaw. Light catches his chestnut hair, slicked back, except for a single rebellious strand that falls over his forehead, defying the rest of his hair.