Part 6 ( Juliet )

I take another sip of champagne, the crisp taste grounding me as I keep my focus on Mia.

"Ms. Baldwin."

I turn slightly, immediately met with the sight of a tall man, well-dressed, refined, his dark eyes sharp beneath his mask. He carries himself with ease, the kind of effortless charm that only comes with experience in high society. He's older than me, but not significantly so, his sharp jawline dusted with the slightest hint of stubble.

He inclines his head slightly, offering a polite smile. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Mia raises a brow, glancing between us with thinly veiled interest, but she says nothing.

I study him for a brief moment before responding. "That depends."

His lips twitch in amusement. "On what?"

I take another sip of my champagne, meeting his gaze evenly. "If you're about to ask for a business deal, then yes, you are."

His chuckle is low, warm, genuinely amused. "You wound me, Ms. Baldwin. Do I seem like the type to use an event like this for business?"

I tilt my head slightly, intrigued despite myself. "Most men in this room do."

"Well," he says, a hint of something smug in his tone. "I'm not most men."

Mia lets out a quiet snort beside me, but I ignore her.

Instead, I glance at him with mild curiosity. "And you are?"

"Lucian Moreau," he says smoothly, offering his hand. "CEO of Moreau International."

I know the name. A powerful luxury goods empire, one of the few companies that hasn't yet bent to Baldwin Lux's influence. He's one of the few people in this room that I haven't had direct dealings with.

Interesting.

I take his hand, my grip firm, testing. He doesn't waver, his hold equally steady.

He smiles slightly. "I must say, your reputation precedes you."

I hum, retracting my hand. "And yet, you're still here, introducing yourself."

"Should I be afraid?" he asks, his tone teasing, but there's something else beneath it, something sharp.

I meet his gaze evenly. "That depends. Do you have something to fear?"

Lucian exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Now I see why everyone in this room is either terrified of you or desperate for your approval."

I arch a brow. "And which category do you fall into, Mr. Moreau?"

His smirk deepens. "Neither."

I let a beat of silence pass, assessing him. He doesn't try to impress me with empty words. He doesn't jump straight into business. And, most importantly, he doesn't fawn.

I admire that.

Mia, sensing the shift in energy, suddenly claps her hands together. "Well. This is officially the most entertained I've been all night."

Aiden huffs a quiet laugh beside her, but Lucian's attention remains on me.

He glances toward the crowd. "I just wanted to say that I admire what you've built. Baldwin Lux is a force. And whether people like to admit it or not, you run this world."

I hum, tapping my fingers against my champagne glass. "Flattery gets you nowhere, Mr. Moreau."

"Who said I was flattering you?" His lips curl into something dangerously close to a smirk. "It's just the truth."

Something about the way he says it, the sheer confidence behind his words, piques my interest. It's rare that anyone speaks to me like this, with ease, with certainty, with an understanding that doesn't feel rehearsed.

The music changes, the elegant strings of the quartet swelling into something richer, deeper. A shift ripples through the ballroom as masked guests turn toward the dance floor, recognizing the beginning of a tradition, one that ensures no dance lasts too long with a single partner.

A controlled exchange. A game of power and presence.

Lucian stands before me, a small, knowing smile gracing his lips. He extends a gloved hand, his head inclining just slightly in invitation. "May I have this dance?"

I study him for a moment, my fingers tightening around my glass. The ballroom is full of men who would leap at the chance to have my attention, but he is one of the few who hasn't spent the night trying to sell me something.

For that alone, I grant him this.

I set my champagne flute down, slipping my hand into his without hesitation. "Lead the way."

His grip is firm but smooth as he guides me toward the center of the ballroom. The space opens up for us, masked guests parting slightly, making room for the first set of dancers.

The first notes of the waltz swell into the air. Around us, others step into place, but all eyes remain where they should, on me.

Lucian positions one hand at my waist, the other clasping mine as we move into place. I rest my free hand lightly on his shoulder, our movements perfectly measured.

Then, the music begins.

He moves well, better than I expected. Each step is seamless, each turn fluid. It takes little effort to match his pace, our bodies moving in perfect synchrony as the dance floor fills around us.

"A flawless start," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth.

I hum, holding his gaze, unbothered by the closeness.

His lips twitch.

We move effortlessly through the steps, never missing a beat. The world around us blurs slightly, a sea of masked faces watching, whispering, calculating.

Lucian watches me closely, his tone shifting into something more curious. "Tell me, Baldwin, do you ever tire of being the center of attention?"

I exhale quietly. "No."

He chuckles. "Of course not."

His fingers press slightly against my waist as he guides us through another turn, the silk of my gown brushing against his legs with every movement. "You command a room unlike anyone I've ever seen," he says. "It's... fascinating."

I arch a brow. "Flattery again, Mr. Moreau?"

He smirks. "Observation."

I hum, letting the music fill the space between us as we continue moving in perfect tandem. The rhythm of the dance is intoxicating in its own way, precise, elegant, controlled.

And then, the shift begins.

A slow ripple moves through the floor as the pattern dictates, partners will change, moving effortlessly from one hand to the next in a perfectly timed exchange.

Lucian smirks knowingly. "A shame. I was rather enjoying myself."

I tilt my head slightly. "Were you?"

His fingers graze mine one last time before we part.

And just like that, I am passed into the hands of another.

The transition is seamless. One hand lets go, and another takes its place. The faceless man in front of me is dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, his mask ornate but unfamiliar. He holds himself well, confident but not overbearing. A practiced dancer, like most men in this room.

His hand settles lightly against my waist as we fall into rhythm. The music sways, the violins lifting, carrying us through the motion.

"You look beautiful," he says smoothly, his voice pleasant, but entirely unremarkable.

I offer a polite smile. "Thank you."

No more, no less.

His fingers press a fraction tighter against my waist as he guides us through the next step. He doesn't pry, doesn't push for conversation. Which means he knows exactly who I am. Knows that words are meaningless unless they hold weight.

Then, the shift begins again.

I let go of his hand, stepping forward as another takes his place.

"Careful, Baldwin," Anthony Vasquez murmurs, his grip settling into place. "People might start thinking you actually enjoy this."

I exhale softly through my nose, finally meeting his gaze. "Unlikely."

He grins, leading me into the next step. "You're surprisingly good at this."

I arch a brow. "And you're surprised because...?"

His lips twitch, amusement flickering beneath his mask. "You don't strike me as the type to entertain ballroom traditions."

I hum. "I don't entertain anything. I command it."

Anthony chuckles. "Of course you do."

We continue moving in effortless synchronization, each step calculated, controlled. He's a strong lead, confident in a way that isn't overcompensating. It's expected. He wouldn't be Anthony Vasquez if he was anything less.

"You're enjoying yourself more than you're letting on." he observes, his voice smooth with amusement.

I tilt my head slightly. "And what makes you think that?"

He smirks. "Because if you truly hated it, you wouldn't be here."

I don't respond, but I don't have to. Anthony has always been a man who reads between the lines.

"Still," he continues, his tone dipping into something more thoughtful. "This is the first time I've seen you... indulge."

I exhale, unimpressed. "Dancing is not an indulgence, Vasquez. It's a necessity."

His fingers press slightly at my waist as he guides me into another turn. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this is just another performance?"

My lips part, a sharp retort ready, but before I can deliver it, the shift begins again.

Anthony smirks knowingly, his grip loosening as the next partner reaches for my hand.

"Until next time, Baldwin," he murmurs before slipping away into the crowd.

And just like that, I am passed into the arms of someone else.

I exhale, shifting in step with my current partner, a well-dressed man whose name I didn't bother to catch. His hand is warm against mine, his grip firm but respectful. He twirls me with ease, his voice smooth as he murmurs, "You look breathtaking, Ms. Baldwin."

I offer a polite, detached smile. "Thank you."

Before he can say more, the music shifts.

Partners switch. Gloved hands release, bodies spin, strangers find each other once more.

I barely have a moment to adjust before I turn, and then I see her. The woman in a deep purple tuxedo.

Tall. Confident. Poised.

I meet her eyes through the delicate filigree of her mask, expecting nothing but another stranger.

But something halts me.

Something slams into my chest, sudden and unexpected, knocking the air from my lungs.

Because those eyes...

Those piercing ocean eyes. I know them.

A slow, invisible thread tightens in the space between us, wrapping around my ribs, squeezing. My breath catches as my mind struggles to process what my body already knows.

No. No, it can't be.

It's impossible.

My heartbeat slams against my ribs as I stare, my grip tightening around her hand.

And then, realization strikes.

The moment it does, I see it mirrored in her.

Ellie.

I see the shift in her expression, the widening of her eyes, the subtle part of her lips as it hits her too.

The world stutters.

The ballroom, the orchestra, the other dancers, they all fade into a distant hum, lost behind the sheer force of this.

Ellie Crawford. Here.

In my masquerade.

My throat tightens, but no words come.

Her fingers twitch against mine, like she wants to say something, wants to move, but like me, she is stuck.

Frozen in this unbearable, magnetic pull.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to see her again.

And yet, she's here. Right in front of me. Looking at me like she can't believe I exist.

We should speak. We should do something.

But neither of us do.

Because this moment, this awful, raw, gut-wrenching moment, is bigger than either of us.

The orchestra plays on, oblivious to the hurricane between us. Our feet move, following the steps of the dance out of sheer muscle memory, but it's different now.

The tension coils so tightly it's a wonder the entire ballroom doesn't feel it.

Ellie's hand is warm in mine, her grip just a little tighter than before, as if neither of us are quite willing to let go. Her jaw tightens, and I can feel her struggling, the same way I am.

A hundred things want to be said. A hundred things neither of us have the strength to voice.

My mind screams at me to speak, to say anything, but my lips refuse to move.

Because what do you say when the past you buried is suddenly staring right back at you?

Ellie's gaze burns into me, searching, looking for something.

For what? Answers? An explanation? For a reason to hate me?

I don't know. I don't know anything right now.

My stomach twists. My pulse is a sharp, erratic beat in my throat. Everything feels wrong.

She feels wrong.

Because Ellie isn't supposed to be here.

Not in my world. Not in this life I built. Not in the place I created to forget her.

And for the first time in years, the mask I wear doesn't feel so impenetrable. For the first time in years, something cracks.

The dance moves us, spins us, forcing us to shift closer and closer, until I can feel the warmth of her body, smell the faint, familiar trace of her cologne.

God.

It's been years, and yet it's still so painfully familiar.

My stomach clenches, and I have to force myself to breathe, force my grip to remain steady, force myself not to let this moment unravel me completely.

Ellie's lips part slightly, her fingers flexing in mine, as if she's on the verge of saying something, finally breaking the silence between us.

The music shifts again.

Another cue. Another switch.

Our hands remain locked, fingers tightening unconsciously, instinctively, as if neither of us are willing to let go just yet.

And then, at the very last second, We do.

Her touch slips from mine as the dance pulls us apart, her hand taken by another, mine replaced by someone else's.

The separation feels like whiplash.

My pulse is a deafening roar in my ears as I move, as my new partner spins me away from her. I barely process the next person in front of me.

My breath is shallow. My chest aches. I don't turn back.

I can't.

Because if I do, if I let myself see her again, I don't know what I'll do.

And I refuse to break in a room full of people waiting for my next move. So I don't look. I press my lips together, lift my chin, and keep dancing.

As if that moment, whatever it was, never happened.

But deep down, I know. It did. And I don't think I'll ever be able to pretend otherwise.