An elegant envelope, slipped under the door of Isla and Noah’s hotel suite during their weekend getaway. No sender. No message — just a time, an address, and a line handwritten in deep ink:
“For the curious. Masks provided.”
Noah laughed, thinking it a joke. Isla turned it over in her hands, pulse quickening. “What if we go?” she whispered. “Just to see.”
They drove up the winding road just before midnight, headlights cutting through fog and moonlight. At the top of the hill stood a manor house — old, sprawling, half-covered in ivy. Candlelight flickered behind tall windows. Music drifted from somewhere inside — slow, smoky jazz.
At the door, they were greeted by a man in a velvet blazer and a silver half-mask. “Welcome. Leave your names behind,” he said smoothly, handing them their own masks. “Inside, only consent matters.”
The room was filled with other couples — dressed in black, gold, and deep red. Eyes hidden behind masks, hands brushing bare shoulders. Everyone moved with the quiet confidence of people who knew exactly why they were there.
Isla’s skin tingled beneath her dress. Noah’s hand was steady on her back.
They were approached by a couple — elegant, ageless. The woman wore a floor-length gown that shimmered like spilled wine. The man’s gaze was calm, magnetic. “You’re new,” he said simply.
Isla nodded. “We weren’t sure what to expect.”
The woman smiled. “That’s the best way to begin.”
Drinks flowed. Glances deepened. Fingers lingered. The air was thick with tension — polite, quiet, but full of possibility.
Then, like some unspoken signal had passed, the room shifted. Pairs parted and reformed. Masks slipped, hands touched skin, mouths met mouths. It was tender. Bold. Fluid.
Isla felt herself drawn into the rhythm — the way another’s touch could feel new but not foreign. She watched Noah, laughing gently with the woman in red, his hands respectful, curious.
She wasn’t jealous.
She was exhilarated.
Later, in the library room, lit only by low lamps and the glow of a fire, the four of them came together again — not as strangers, but as something newly formed. Their laughter was softer now. Their touches slower. The masks had been left behind on the velvet couch.
And when the morning sun broke across the hills, Isla and Noah didn’t speak much as they drove back down the road.
But she held his hand the entire way, her thumb brushing his knuckle like a secret.
And neither of them ever asked who left the invitation.
