Chapter Seven — Masquerade of Thorns
The ballroom shimmered like a dream steeped in blood and gold.
Every corner was dressed in decadence—crimson velvet drapes kissed the marbled floors, golden candelabras flickered with flames like watchful eyes, and the chandelier above, a monstrous blossom of glass and crystal, swayed slightly with the waltz of secrets beneath it.
Masked figures twirled in elegant synchronization, their silks whispering like ghosts. Laughter floated in the air—not joyous, but sharp, hollow, almost mocking. It felt less like a celebration and more like a ritual—a parade of hollow souls hiding behind beauty and masks.
Evelyn stood at the threshold, her breath catching in her throat.
She wore crimson silk that clung like sin, her gown sculpted to her curves with a train that trailed like spilled wine. A black lace mask veiled her eyes, but could not hide the flicker of fear, or the haunting anticipation dancing behind them. Her pulse fluttered beneath the fragile porcelain of her skin.
She knew this wasn't just an invitation.
It was a test.
And he was watching.
Above the crowd, Dorian leaned on the balcony, clothed in obsidian velvet, his mask carved like a raven's beak, sharp and proud. He looked carved from shadow, too perfect to be real. And when their eyes met—through masks, across distance—the air shifted, dense and electric, as though time itself dared not breathe.
Evelyn stepped forward, pulled by something deeper than memory. Something closer to fate.
The crowd seemed to part instinctively, as if sensing something ancient was being reborn in their midst. Dorian descended the staircase with slow, unhurried grace—each step a note in a forgotten requiem. He didn't look left or right, didn't acknowledge the whispers or the stares. His eyes were only for her.
He stopped just before her, bowed low, and extended a gloved hand.
"You came," he murmured, his voice honeyed velvet laced with venom.
"I had to," she whispered, trembling as her hand found his. "You knew I would."
His smile was faint—more of a memory than an expression. "Of course."
He led her into the heart of the ballroom where the orchestra swelled, and the dancers faded into a blur. The world narrowed to two.
They danced.
Not like strangers. Not like lovers. Like two people who had tasted eternity together and then broken it with their own hands.
His hand at her waist was firm, possessive. His other cradled hers like porcelain. Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony, yet their hearts screamed beneath the surface.
"Why invite me here?" Evelyn asked, breathless. "Why now?"
Dorian's eyes glinted through the mask. "Because masks tell more truth than faces. Because even poison, when served in crystal, is beautiful."
His words curled around her like smoke. She could feel his breath, taste his memories.
He spun her, slowly, deliberately, then pulled her back until their chests nearly touched. Her breath hitched.
"You think of me now, don't you?" he said, his voice barely above the music. "In the silence. In the emptiness between his arms."
She looked away. "Don't."
"But I will," he pressed, voice tightening. "Because I know you. I know how the guilt clings to your skin. I know how the scent of me haunts your pillow when you're alone."
She clenched her jaw. "You have no right—"
"But I do." He cut through her denial like a blade. "Because your heart still flinches when I speak. Because you wore red tonight, Evelyn. Not black, not gold. Red. Like the past. Like sin."
Her steps faltered, just for a moment. He caught her.
"I didn't know they'd take you," she said, voice small.
"But you didn't stop them," he replied. "You chose silence over me."
Their dance slowed. Her fingers trembled in his.
"Then why not destroy me?" she asked, voice cracking. "Isn't that why you brought me here? For revenge?"
His smile was devastating—tender and cruel, like a lover's kiss before the knife.
"No, Evelyn," he whispered against her ear. "I don't want to destroy you. I want you to wither. Slowly. Elegantly. To walk through every day wondering if I'll come again. To sleep in silk and scream in silence. And when you finally fall to your knees—not for love, but for forgiveness—I'll walk away."
She gasped, pain flickering across her face like lightning. "You say you feel nothing. But your touch betrays you."
He leaned close enough for her to feel his heartbeat. "And your presence betrays you."
They stopped.
The music faded around them. He bowed again, lips brushing her knuckles like a final promise.
Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by gold and shadow.
Evelyn stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, pulse racing, heart breaking beneath satin and lace.
Above, from the shadows, Dorian watched.
She was unraveling—slowly, deliciously.
And he had only just begun.