CHAPTER TWO: THE MASQUERADE

VALENTINE

The Danbury estate hadn't looked this alive in years.

Twilight bled into the sky like bruised silk as black cars rolled up the gravel driveway, each one sleeker than the last. Chauffeurs opened doors for women wrapped in diamonds and velvet, men whose shoes gleamed like secrets. Paparazzi weren't allowed inside the gates, but the sound of camera shutters still echoed faintly from the outside world.

Tonight wasn't just a party.

It was a resurrection.

And I—Valentine Danbury—was the prize on display.

Inside the ballroom, the air shimmered with warmth and power. Chandelier light spilled across the room like liquid gold, dancing over glassware, champagne towers, and towering white floral arrangements. The string quartet tucked into the corner played an eerie, lilting waltz—music from another century. It fit the setting: baroque architecture, dark wood floors, silk wallpaper, and gilded mirrors that distorted every reflection just slightly.

But it was the masks that made it otherworldly.

Everyone wore one—feathered, jeweled, lace-edged, or sculpted in eerie perfection. Anonymity was the illusion. Everyone knew everyone here. And everyone had something to hide.

I stepped through the grand arched doorway, letting the sheer decadence of it all wash over me.

My gown was deep burgundy satin, clinging in all the right places, cinched at the waist with an antique corset design. The sleeves fell off my shoulders, sheer and soft like whispers. My mask was gold—filigreed and curved over my cheekbones, delicate but commanding.

The murmurs began the moment I entered.

"She's back."

"That's Valentine?"

"Krystal's daughter... she's the one from the fire, right?"

"No one really talks about what happened..."

My heels clicked across the polished marble floor with the kind of practiced elegance that had been drilled into me since I was a child.

Smile. But never too wide.

Make eye contact. But only when it matters.

Be charming. Be gracious.

Be impossible to touch.

My parents stood near the fireplace, perfectly poised, like the king and queen of a crumbling empire held together with perfectly cut diamonds and smoke. Their masks matched—silver and navy, regal and sharp. Krystal looked like a painting come to life. Eden, like a man who had seen war and was still standing in the middle of it.

Their eyes found me. And for the briefest moment, Eden smiled.

But there was tension in his jaw.

A shadow in his gaze.

Something was wrong. Or maybe it always had been, and I was only just now seeing it.

I made my rounds. Politely. Elegantly. Fake laughter paired with strategic silences. I drank champagne from crystal flutes and accepted compliments with a tilt of the head. Keira and Isabella arrived, both looking like power and grace spun into silk and heels. We clinked glasses under a chandelier that sparkled like a sky full of sharp stars.

"This is surreal," Keira whispered. "Feels like a fairytale."

"More like a well-dressed nightmare," Isabella murmured.

I couldn't disagree.

The walls felt too tight. The smiles too sharp. And the shadows... they moved wrong.

I slipped away for air.

The terrace overlooked the eastern gardens, trimmed and manicured into submission. The moon hung low—too close, like it was watching. And the string quartet's haunting melody carried faintly through the glass doors.

He stood at the far end. A stranger, dressed in black.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still as marble.

His mask was silver, sculpted like a wolf's face with sharp edges and pointed ears. His hands rested in his pockets, like he wasn't impressed by any of it.

I didn't hear him approach. One moment he was across the terrace. The next, just a few feet away.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice was quiet—deep and low, like velvet stretched tight over a blade.

"I live here."

"Doesn't mean it's safe."

I narrowed my eyes. "And you are?"

He tilted his head slightly, studying me.

"Let's just say... I know what it means to grow up in a house built on ashes."

The words struck harder than I expected. My breath caught. He saw it. And before I could form another question—he was gone.

Like smoke vanishing into night.

Later that night, after the champagne had dulled the noise and most guests were drunk on indulgence, I wandered into the west wing. A place that was supposed to be sealed shut.

But the door was ajar.

A single candelabra flickered inside.

The Danbury Gallery.

Oil paintings lined the walls—ancestors cloaked in power and pride. Their gazes followed you no matter where you stood. I walked slowly, drawn to one portrait in particular. But when I reached it, my chest turned to ice.

The canvas had been slashed. From corner to corner.

A woman in a black gown—only fragments remained. One eye. Part of a jaw. A silver locket.

The same one I had in my drawer. The one I'd been found with after the fire.

My heart thundered.

Who was she?

Behind me, the floor creaked.

"Valentine?"

It's Krystal's voice.

She stood in the doorway, her gown trailing behind her like spilled ink. Her face was pale behind her mask.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I was just looking," I said, stepping away from the painting. "Who is she?"

Krystal's eyes darkened. She moved closer, her voice quiet and sharp.

"She was... a mistake."

The silence that followed was heavy. Final.

She reached out and gently took my hand.

"Come. This room holds too much dust."

But as she led me out, her fingers trembled.

I didn't sleep that night.

Not after the masked man's warning.

Not after the painting.

And not after hearing my parents whisper behind a locked door—

"…She remembers something. The locket was a mistake.""She's getting too close.""She can't know what really happened that night."