The gala was invitation-only, hosted in a century-old opera house filled with ghosts of applause and scandal. Guests glided through the grand halls in tailored tuxedos and sweeping gowns, their identities hidden behind glittering masks.
No one used last names.
Mara and Lucien arrived fashionably late—he in a black velvet suit with a gold half-mask, she in a deep emerald dress slit to the hip, her mask feathered and feline. They weren’t strangers to these events. In fact, they’d helped plan the afterparty.
But tonight was different. Tonight, they had their sights set on someone new.
Across the ballroom, atop the grand staircase, stood a couple who hadn’t gone unnoticed—André and Celeste. Married, it was rumored. But also known for hosting midnight salons in Montmartre. Mara had met Celeste once in Paris, but only briefly. Enough to know that behind her icy exterior burned something… untamed.
Their eyes met over flutes of champagne.
By the third course of dinner, Mara and Celeste were whispering.
By the fifth, Lucien and André had disappeared.
The private balcony was velvet-lined and candlelit, overlooking the ballroom like a hidden stage. The four of them had slipped away during the auction, coats forgotten, champagne bottles in hand.
Lucien was seated on the couch, tie undone, shirt opened. André stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, lips grazing the back of his neck.
“You’re very… relaxed,” André murmured.
“Only when I’m being handled,” Lucien replied with a smirk.
Mara and Celeste stood by the heavy curtains. Celeste pushed her up against them, her thigh sliding between Mara’s legs, lips grazing her jaw.
“I’ve wanted to do this since Paris,” she said, voice like silk over a knife’s edge.
“Then do it right.”
Celeste kissed her—no hesitation, no buildup. Just heat. Mara moaned into her mouth, clutching the folds of her gown as Celeste’s hands pushed the fabric up, fingers sliding between her thighs.
Lucien watched through hooded eyes as Mara writhed against the wall. He licked his lips and reached back for André’s belt. Moments later, they were both on the couch, their mouths hot and open.
Celeste pulled Mara to the ground, laying her out on the Persian rug like a feast. Mara’s dress peeled away, and Celeste went down on her slowly, thoroughly, making Mara arch and cry out loud enough to echo.
Lucien couldn’t look away. Neither could André.
Silence fell, heavy and satisfied.
The gala still roared below them. Music swelled. Glasses clinked. No one noticed what had happened above. Or maybe they did—and simply knew better than to interrupt.
Mara looked up from the rug, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted.
“So,” she said, breathless. “Dessert?”
Celeste grinned wickedly and pulled her mask back down. “We’re just getting started.”