Chapter 3 Masquerade Ball

# Chapter 3: Masquerade Ball

Three weeks into my marriage, an engraved invitation appeared on my breakfast tray. "The Annual Blackwood Masquerade," read the elegant script. "Tradition dictates all attendees remain masked until midnight."

"It's the social event of the season," Dorian said from the doorway, startling me. He'd developed an unsettling habit of appearing silently when I least expected him. "Every prominent family in the city attends."

I set down my coffee cup. "And as Mrs. Blackwood, I'm expected to play hostess?"

"Evelyn handles the hosting duties. You need only look beautiful and make appropriate conversation." He crossed to the window, keeping the customary distance he always maintained between us. "A dress has been ordered for you. Fitting is this afternoon."

Our interactions had fallen into a strange rhythm since our confrontation in the library. Polite, distant, formal. He left before I woke and often returned after I'd retired. We were performers in a carefully choreographed dance, never stepping too close.

"Will you be there?" I asked. "At the ball?"

Something like amusement flickered across his visible features. "It's a masquerade, Lila. Everyone will be there, hidden behind facades of their choosing." He turned to leave, then paused. "The dress is red. Wear your hair up."

The dress was more than red—it was crimson, the color of fresh blood, cut from silk that flowed like liquid fire. As the stylist Evelyn had arranged fastened the last button, I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. The neckline plunged daringly low, the waist cinched tight, the skirt cascading dramatically to the floor.

"The mask, madam," said the maid, presenting a delicate creation of black lace and red crystals.

When I entered the ballroom that evening, the transformation was complete. Chandeliers cast golden light over a sea of masked figures in swirling finery. Musicians played from a balcony above, while waiters circulated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

I searched for Dorian but couldn't identify him among the masked men in tuxedos. Evelyn I spotted immediately—her silver-streaked hair was unmistakable above a peacock-feathered mask.

"Mrs. Blackwood," she greeted me with her customary cool smile. "You look... noticeable."

"Thank you, I think."

"Do circulate. The Ashcrofts have been asking about you." She leaned closer. "And remember, discretion is paramount. No one needs to know about your... separate sleeping arrangements."

I nodded, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. As I moved through the crowd, I felt eyes following me—the curiosity of the elite, hungry for gossip about Dorian Blackwood's mysterious new bride.

"So you're the woman who conquered our city's most eligible recluse," said a voice behind me. I turned to find a tall man in a golden mask. "Harrison Wells, Blackwood Industries' legal counsel. We've been dying to meet you."

"Lila Blackwood," I replied, extending my hand.

"Tell me," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "is it true about the mask? Does he wear it even in... private moments?"

I stiffened. "I don't discuss my husband's personal matters."

"Of course, forgive me." His smile turned wolfish. "Though many have wondered what catastrophe could have befallen our dear Dorian to warrant such theatrics. An accident, they say, though the details remain frustratingly vague."

My heart pounded as I fought to keep my expression neutral. "If you'll excuse me—"

"One dance before you go?" He caught my hand. "For the sake of old family connections."

Before I could refuse, another voice cut in—deep, commanding, instantly recognizable despite its unusual warmth.

"I believe this dance belongs to me."

Dorian stood beside us, unrecognizable but for his voice. Unlike his daily half-mask, tonight he wore a full-face covering of burnished silver that concealed every feature. His tuxedo was impeccable, his posture rigid.

Harrison backed away with a slight bow. "Of course, Blackwood. Just keeping your lovely wife entertained."

As Dorian led me to the dance floor, his hand at the small of my back sent an unexpected shiver up my spine. "Wells has always been too curious for his own good," he murmured.

"You recognized me," I said, as his arm encircled my waist. "Despite the mask."

"I would know you anywhere," he replied, the words sending a confusing flutter through my chest. "The dress suits you."

The orchestra began a waltz. Dorian moved with surprising grace, leading me effortlessly across the floor. Through the eyeholes of his mask, I caught glimpses of intense blue watching me.

"You dance well," I said, searching for neutral conversation.

"Years of practice. Mother insisted." His hand tightened slightly on my waist. "You seem to be adapting to Blackwood life."

"Your cousin ensures I have little choice."

His soft laugh vibrated through his chest. "Evelyn takes her responsibilities seriously. Perhaps too seriously."

As we turned, I spotted Evelyn watching us from across the room, her expression unreadable behind her mask.

"She doesn't approve of me," I said.

"Evelyn doesn't approve of anyone she can't control." Dorian pulled me fractionally closer, our bodies nearly touching. "Including me."

The proximity was dizzying. Despite everything—the circumstances of our marriage, the history between us—I couldn't deny the physical response his nearness triggered. His cologne enveloped me, spicy and masculine.

"Why the full mask tonight?" I asked, desperate to distract myself from these unwelcome reactions. "When everyone knows who you are anyway?"

"Perhaps I enjoy the freedom anonymity provides." His voice dropped lower. "Or perhaps, tonight, I wanted to be someone else entirely."

The music swelled as he guided me into a turn, then drew me against him, closer than proper. My breath caught at the unexpected intimacy.

"Who would you be," I whispered, "if you could be anyone else tonight?"

"Just a man," he murmured near my ear, "dancing with a beautiful woman who haunts his dreams."

The words, spoken in that velvet voice, sent heat coursing through me. This wasn't the cold, distant Dorian who had married me for revenge or business. This was someone else—someone dangerous in an entirely different way.

As the dance ended, he didn't release me immediately. Instead, he leaned close, his masked face beside my ear.

"You wore a blue dress that night," he whispered, and my blood froze. "When you knelt beside me in the rain, your hands covered in my blood, you whispered, 'I'm sorry, please don't die.' Did you mean it, I wonder?"

My knees nearly buckled. How could he know what I'd said? I'd never told anyone those words.

"How—" I gasped, but he was already leading me off the dance floor.

"The champagne is making the room spin," he said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. "Perhaps some air on the terrace?"

Before I could protest, we were outside in the cool night air, hidden from the ballroom by heavy curtains. Dorian released me and moved to the stone balustrade, his back to me.

"How did you know what I said that night?" I demanded, my voice shaking.

"I was conscious longer than you realized." He turned back to me, his hand rising to the edge of his mask. "I remember your face above mine, illuminated by the headlights. I remember your tears mixing with the rain."

His fingers worked at the mask's fastening. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Dorian, what are you—"

"Don't you want to see?" he asked, his voice strangely vulnerable. "What you did? The real reason for the mask?"

Part of me wanted to run, to escape the guilt that threatened to overwhelm me. But I stood transfixed as he slowly began to lift the silver covering.

Just as the edge rose past his jawline, the terrace doors burst open. Evelyn stood framed in the light, her expression thunderous even behind her mask.

"There you are! The Mayors have arrived. Your presence is required immediately." Her eyes darted between us, noting our positions, the tension in the air, Dorian's hand at his mask.

Dorian's posture changed instantly—the vulnerability vanishing, replaced by rigid control. He adjusted his mask with practiced ease.

"Of course," he said, voice once again cool and detached. "We'll be right in."

As Evelyn retreated, Dorian turned to me one last time. "Perhaps it's better this way. Some truths are best revealed slowly."

He offered his arm formally. I took it, my fingers trembling against the fine wool of his sleeve.

"What happens now?" I asked.

"Now? We return to our roles." His voice softened slightly. "But remember this moment, Lila. Remember that beneath every mask is a face, and beneath every face, a truth waiting to be discovered."

As we reentered the glittering ballroom, I couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between us. In those brief moments on the terrace, I'd glimpsed something beneath Dorian's carefully constructed facade—not just the physical scars he hid, but something more fragile, more human.

And for the first time since our wedding, I found myself wondering not what Dorian Blackwood might do to punish me for the past, but who he really was beneath the mask he showed the world.