Chapter [11]: The masqurade ball

# Chapter 11: The Ball

The evening settled softly over the town, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet. Lolita had returned home early, her legs aching from the long day at her stall. She had closed earlier than usual—her heart steady, not racing, because she wasn't excited or particularly nervous about the ball. It wasn't the kind of event she dreamt about or longed for. It was just something she had to do. Her feelings remained neutral, as they often were when life demanded she step into roles she didn't choose.

Her small home was dimly lit, the single bulb casting faint shadows on the cracked walls. She cooked noodles with cheese, the smell filling the tiny house. Matteo was playing with a broken toy truck, still full of energy, Her mother lay unmoving in bed, her eyes open but distant, like a ghost tethered to a fragile body. Lolita glanced at her briefly, her emotions buried deep. There was no time to linger on feelings. There never was.

After dinner, Lolita managed to put Matteo to bed, though he protested, insisting he wasn't sleepy. She had lied to him, telling him she was going to work outside the city. It was easier than explaining the truth. She tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and left the small plastic container he used for nighttime urination by the bed. It was routine. He usually woke her up when he needed to go outside, but tonight she wouldn't be there. She whispered a goodnight, her voice steady, and left the room.

In the corner of her room, she pulled out her old, tattered backpack and placed the clothes Monica had given her inside. The dress felt foreign even in her hands—too fine, too smooth for someone like her.

### Preparing for the Ball

She hailed a cab to the city, using the last of her sales money and a portion of what Monica had given her. The streets grew busier as they neared, the buildings taller and brighter, their lights reflecting off sleek cars. When she arrived at the salon, it felt like stepping into another world—one she didn't belong to.

The air smelled of hairspray and perfume. Women with manicured nails and glossy hair lounged in chairs, laughing and chatting as stylists fussed over them. Lolita's worn clothes and tired face drew a few curious glances, and some openly sneered. She ignored them. She had long since learned that the opinions of the wealthy were as fleeting as their friendships.

She sat quietly as the stylist worked on her hair, her mind wandering. Nearby, a group of young women giggled loudly, talking about their boyfriends and the expensive gifts they received. Lolita didn't mean to eavesdrop, but they were close, and their voices carried. They spoke of vacations, diamond bracelets, and designer bags—things so far removed from Lolita's reality that they sounded like fairy tales.

When her hair was done, she paid extra for makeup, though it pained her to part with so much money. The stylist worked quickly, transforming her face with practiced hands. When Lolita looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Her hair was styled elegantly, her makeup subtle yet striking. For a moment, she felt like someone else entirely—a stranger in her own skin.

Back at the small motel she had booked for the night, she dressed in the black gown Monica had given her. It hugged her curves perfectly, the fabric smooth and luxurious against her skin. The golden mask she tied around her face added an air of mystery. Her shoes, simple yet elegant, matched the dress perfectly. When she was ready, she stood in front of the cracked mirror, staring at the woman before her. She looked beautiful, but she felt the same.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered to herself.

### Arrival at Moline Hotel

The cab ride to Moline Hotel was long and quiet. The driver glanced at her occasionally, clearly curious about the mask, but said nothing. As they approached the hotel, Lolita's breath caught. The street was dazzling, lined with luxurious cars that gleamed under the streetlights. The hotel itself was a towering masterpiece of glass and stone, its entrance framed by golden lights.

The driver, noticing her awe, chuckled. "You're not from the city, are you?"

Lolita shook her head, her voice steady. "No."

He smirked. "This is Lorenzo de Cavizriel's place. The Cavizriels are one of the most powerful families in the country. They own half the city, maybe more. This ball? It's their doing. Don't know why, though. Rich people have their reasons."

Lolita didn't respond. The name felt heavy, almost mythical, but she pushed the thought aside. When the cab stopped, it was at a corner far from the grand entrance.

"Why here?" she asked, frowning.

The driver gestured at the line of luxury cars ahead. "You see my car? It doesn't belong here. Neither do I. This is as far as I go."

Lolita sighed but didn't argue. She stepped out, adjusting her dress and mask. As she walked toward the hotel, the air around her buzzed with energy. Paparazzi swarmed the entrance, their cameras flashing as they captured the wealthy and glamorous. Men in tailored suits and women in stunning gowns strolled confidently, their masks glittering under the lights.

Lolita walked past them unnoticed, the paparazzi barely sparing her a glance. She didn't care. Attention wasn't what she was here for.

### Inside the Ball

The hotel's interior was breathtaking. The grand ballroom was a sea of opulence—golden chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow over the room. The floors were polished marble, reflecting the light like a mirror. In the center of the room stood a fountain, but instead of water, it flowed with wine. Long tables lined the walls, laden with food so extravagant it looked like art.

Lolita stood near the wine fountain, observing the crowd. The room was filled with laughter and chatter, the sound of clinking glasses and soft music weaving through the air. Women in vibrant gowns and intricate masks whispered to one another, their voices low and conspiratorial. Men in sharp suits exchanged handshakes and smiles, their eyes scanning the room.

She felt out of place but didn't let it show. Her posture was straight, her expression calm. She was used to being alone in a crowd.

As she reached for a glass of wine, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned, her heart skipping for just a moment, only to see a waiter standing behind her. He gestured for her to follow.

"Who sent you?" she asked, her voice low.

"Monica," he replied simply.

Lolita hesitated but nodded, setting the glass down. She followed the waiter through the crowd, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.m.