Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Colette Moreau]

Colette wasn’t ready to leave. Not really. But after enough slow-motion goodbyes and one last flute of champagne, she allowed herself to be coaxed toward the exit—thirty minutes later than she should have. Nights like these intoxicated her more than any wine: the shimmer of chandeliers overhead, the glittering orbit of strangers who smiled like old friends, the electric hum of possibility. Even she, a Moreau bred for elegance, raised amid excess had to admit: this evening had dazzled her.

She floated out on a cloud of euphoric satisfaction, her heels clicking like applause across the marble floor. Even Adrian’s cool reserve hadn’t doused her mood. He was quiet, yes, but undeniably present, watching and listening. And when they danced… well. Those arms around her waist had told a different story.

In the car, he was perfectly proper. Too proper. She sensed it beneath the surface—that restrained hunger, the charged silence between words.

If he could only be so lucky, she murmured under her breath, lips curling just slightly.

But the truth was, she wanted him too. She could still feel the weight of his hands at her waist from the dance floor—firm, capable. Not tentative. Not unsure. The way he’d pulled her just close enough to suggest he could’ve taken more, but didn’t. The restraint made it worse. Or better.

Her breath hitched as she remembered the way his body had moved against hers: fluid, precise, undeniably masculine. It was the kind of memory that left heat blooming low in her belly. She imagined leaning in right now, brushing her fingers along the crisp line of his jaw, letting the moment slip its leash.

Her teeth caught her lower lip before she could stop herself. A slip. She smoothed her expression, gaze fixed on the city lights blurring past the tinted window. She'd already made up her mind: goodnight at the door. Maybe—maybe a kiss if he earned it. Sofia’s advice echoed in her memory, but just because she could do better didn't mean she couldn't have a good night.

Adrian, ever the gentleman, offered his arm as they walked the hotel corridor. Her heels sank into plush carpet. The golden sconces threw soft, theatrical light across his sharp features. At her door, she turned to speak her practiced farewell, but then she met his eyes.

And paused.

Something flickered in them. Too quick to name, but enough to jolt her from her reverie. It wasn’t fear exactly. But unease curled cold fingers around her spine.

Her smile didn’t falter. “It’s been a long day. I think I’ll head to bed. Thank you for coming with me, Mister Kane.” Her tone was warm, polite, final.

There was nothing wrong with Adrian. She repeated the phrase to herself like a mantra as she stepped inside and gently closed the door. But the feeling sudden and inexplicable told her to step away.