Chapter 1
The Bellamy estate was quiet tonight, save for the soft whinny of a horse echoing from the stables. Through my bedroom window, I could just make out the silhouette of the Castille vineyard on the distant hill, its endless rows of grapevines disappearing into the dusk. Their estate lights were already glowing—a sign of the ostentatious masquerade gala I was being dragged to against my will.
I turned back to the mirror, frowning at my reflection. My silver mask dangled loosely from my fingers, the silk ribbons twisting and curling like they had a life of their own. I tossed it onto the dresser with a sigh.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, tugging at the neckline of my dress. It was pale silver, designed to shimmer under candlelight, but the tight bodice made breathing feel like an optional luxury.
Margot swept into the room with the precision and flair of a stage actress making her grand entrance. She wore a gown of deep emerald green, its velvet skirt brushing the floor with every step. Her diamond earrings sparkled like stars against the dark fabric, and her hair—pinned into an elaborate updo—made my messy curls feel woefully inadequate.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, crossing to me with a smile that was both condescending and amused. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”
“I am dressed,” I said, gesturing vaguely at my gown. “This thing is practically suffocating me.”
Margot clicked her tongue, placing her hands on her hips. “Oh, stop whining, Emmeline. Do you know how lucky you are to have a dress like that? Most girls in this town would kill to wear Bellamy silver.”
I rolled my eyes. “Most girls in this town would kill not to go to a Castille-hosted party.”
Her smile tightened into something sharper. “We’re not ‘most girls,’ Emme. We’re Bellamys. And we don’t give the Castilles the satisfaction of staying home.”
“It’s just a masquerade,” I said, plopping down onto the chaise by the window. “Why does it matter if we go?”
“It’s not about the masquerade.” Margot moved to the mirror, inspecting herself in the glass and adjusting one of her earrings. “It’s about sending a message. If we skip, they’ll think we’re afraid of them, or too proud to show up.”
“Too proud to show up?” I raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the Bellamy motto?”
She shot me a look that could have frozen the sun.
“It’s not a battlefield, Margot,” I added, trying to soften my tone. “It’s just a party.”
“With the Castilles, everything is a battlefield.” She turned to me, her emerald skirts swishing dramatically. “Now, stop sulking and put on your mask. You might as well look good while losing this argument.”
I sighed, picking up the mask again. Its metallic sheen glinted in the candlelight, delicate and elaborate, but it felt like a cage in my hands.
“Fine,” I said, tying it into place. The silk ribbons grazed the back of my neck like a taunt.
Margot grinned and offered me her arm. “There’s my sister. Now, come on. The carriage is waiting, and we have a masquerade to crash.”
The Castille estate loomed ahead as our carriage rumbled up the long, lantern-lit driveway. Even in the twilight, it glittered like something out of a storybook—its ivy-covered façade glowing golden from the light spilling through its many windows. The sound of music—strings and piano—floated into the night air, mixing with the faint hum of voices and laughter.
“Showy, as always,” Margot muttered, leaning out of the carriage window to inspect the scene.
I stayed silent, clutching the folds of my gown.
Inside, the ballroom was even grander than I expected. The polished marble floor reflected the twinkle of the crystal chandeliers, and everywhere I looked, masked figures swirled in vibrant silks and velvets. The air was thick with perfume and the faint bite of champagne.
Margot swept into the crowd almost immediately, her skirts trailing behind her like she was leading some kind of parade. I hung back, keeping to the edges of the room where it was easier to breathe.
This wasn’t my world.
I lingered near a tall marble pillar, toying with the stem of a champagne flute I didn’t intend to drink. The music swelled, couples moving in perfect unison across the dance floor. Their masks sparkled under the flickering candlelight, concealing their faces but not the practiced elegance of their movements.
I’d just begun plotting my escape when a voice spoke behind me.
“Not a fan of the festivities?”
I turned, startled, and found a man leaning against the pillar beside me. His mask was simple—black with sharp lines that highlighted his strong jaw and cheekbones—but his posture was anything but formal. He looked like he didn’t care about the rules of these kinds of events, which was oddly refreshing.
“Not really,” I said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Too much pretense, don’t you think?”
He tilted his head, studying me with interest. “Pretense is half the fun. Everyone pretending to be something they’re not for a night. Makes it easier to say things you wouldn’t otherwise.”
I arched an eyebrow. “And what is it you’d say, then?”
He smirked, his lips curving into something playful. “That you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
The honesty caught me off guard, and I laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that surprised even me. “Guilty.”
“And yet,” he said, straightening slightly, “here you are.”
“I was forced,” I admitted.
“Ah, a fellow prisoner of circumstance.” He extended a hand. “Dance with me, then. If we’re both stuck, we might as well make the most of it.”
I hesitated, glancing at his outstretched hand. His confidence was effortless but not pushy, and something about him intrigued me more than I cared to admit.
“Just one dance,” I said, slipping my hand into his.
“One dance,” he echoed, his voice tinged with amusement.
The world blurred as we moved.
He led with a grace I didn’t expect, his hand steady against my waist as he guided me across the floor. My initial hesitation melted away as the music shifted, the tempo slowing into something softer and more intimate.
“Tell me something true,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now.
I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Something real,” he said, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Something you wouldn’t tell anyone else tonight.”
I hesitated, my lips parting but no words coming out. And then, without entirely meaning to, I whispered, “I don’t want to be a Bellamy.”
The words felt heavy as they left me, hanging in the air like an exposed secret.
He didn’t falter. If anything, his hold on me tightened slightly. “Why not?”
“It’s exhausting,” I admitted. “All of it. The name, the expectations, the endless rivalry… Sometimes, I just want to disappear.”
He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable behind his mask. Finally, he leaned in and said, “I don’t want to be a Castille.”
My breath caught.
And then, before I could think, his lips brushed mine.
It was quick at first—hesitant, almost like he was testing the waters. But when I didn’t pull away, he kissed me again, deeper this time. His hand at my waist held me steady as the world seemed to spin around us.
When he pulled back, his mask had slipped slightly, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of his jawline before he adjusted it.
“I should go,” he murmured, his voice thick with something I couldn’t place.
“Wait—”
But he was already gone, disappearing into the crowd before I could even catch his name.
