The Moonlight Masquerade was a lie wrapped in silk and crystal.
Aria Blackthorn knew this the moment she stepped into the glass palace suspended above Sapphire Lake, her heels clicking against marble that probably cost more than most people's homes. The charity gala was nothing more than a playground for the elite—a place where blood money wore designer gowns and corporate sins hid behind champagne flutes.
She belonged here about as much as a wolf belonged in a dollhouse.
Her black gown clung to her frame like liquid midnight, constellations embroidered in silver thread catching the light with every breath. The dress was armor, beautiful and impenetrable, hiding the scars that mapped her spine like a constellation of survival. Beneath the silk, her mother's locket rested against her heart—a reminder of everything she'd lost, everything she'd sworn to protect.
Don't trust anyone, she whispered to herself, fingers curling around her father's pocket watch hidden in her glove. To everyone else, it looked like a sentimental trinket. They had no idea it could crack through their security systems like an egg.
The orchestra began her mother's favorite waltz.
Aria's breath caught, her carefully constructed mask slipping for just a moment. Vivaldi's Winter—the piece her mother used to hum while braiding her hair, back when the world still made sense. Back when men in expensive suits hadn't killed her father and destroyed everything good in her life.
She hadn't danced since the funeral.
Focus. She scanned the crowd with practiced indifference, cataloging faces, exits, potential threats. The mission was simple: infiltrate the gala, gather intelligence on the three men who'd built empires on her family's grave, and—
"Apologies."
The word was velvet over steel, and Aria found herself staring into eyes the color of storm clouds before rain. The champagne glass that had been in her hand moments before now lay shattered at her feet, golden liquid seeping into her glove.
Kael Storm stood before her like sin in a navy suit, all broad shoulders and devastating smile. His hair was ink-black and artfully tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it while making million-dollar decisions. The kind of handsome that should have come with a warning label: Dangerous to Hearts and Common Sense.
"Let me replace it." His voice carried the hint of an accent she couldn't place, cultured and smooth. He began removing his own glove—black leather with a tiny phoenix embroidered in gold thread.
Aria's pulse traitorously quickened. Up close, she could see the way his suit clung to his frame, the elegant line of his jaw, the small scar above his left eyebrow that somehow made him more beautiful instead of less. This was Kael Storm, CEO of Storm Industries, the man who'd swallowed her father's company whole and called it business.
Remember why you're here.
"Keep it." Her voice was winter frost. "I don't trust gifts from strangers."
Something flickered in those storm-gray eyes—surprise, maybe even approval. His perfect smile faltered for just a heartbeat before returning full force. "Smart. The world needs more skeptics."
But she caught the way his jaw tightened, the micro-expression that revealed the man beneath the mask. Kael Storm didn't like being refused. Good. Neither did she.
"Excuse me." She stepped around him, her spine straight as a blade.
"Wait."
His hand didn't touch her—he was too smart for that—but she felt the heat of it hovering near her elbow. "I know you."
No, you don't. But when she turned back, those eyes were studying her face with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I don't think so."
"Aria Blackthorn." He said her name like a prayer, like a secret. "Your father was Marcus Blackthorn."
The words hit her like ice water. She kept her expression perfectly neutral, even as her heart began to race. "Was?"
"I'm sorry for your loss."
The sympathy in his voice sounded genuine, which somehow made it worse. She wanted him to be a monster—it would make hating him so much easier. Instead, he looked at her like she mattered, like her pain was real and worth acknowledging.
Don't let him in.
"Thank you." The words tasted like ash. "If you'll excuse me—"
"The buffet's terrible," interrupted a new voice, golden and warm as honey over whiskey. "But I've got something better."
Dante Vale materialized beside them like a beautiful ghost, champagne flute in one hand, paint smudged on his collar despite the formal setting. His golden curls caught the light, and his smile was pure mischief wrapped in a raven-wing masquerade mask. Artist, heir to the Vale fortune, and according to her research, a man who collected hearts like paintings.
He offered her his champagne. "You look like you hate parties. Let's be rebels."
Aria stared at the glass, then at him. Even disheveled, Dante Vale was unfairly beautiful—the kind of face that belonged in Renaissance paintings, all sharp cheekbones and laughing eyes. But she'd learned not to trust beautiful things. They had a tendency to cut.
"I don't do rebels." She met his gaze steadily. "Or thieves."
Dante's grin widened. "Thieves make the best artists. We know how to... borrow beauty." He pulled a napkin from his pocket, producing a pen from thin air, and began sketching. Quick, sure strokes that somehow captured the curve of a rose in full bloom.
Despite herself, Aria found herself watching his hands move. There was something mesmerizing about the way he created beauty from nothing, the way his whole face softened when he was focused on his art. For a moment, she glimpsed the man beneath the charming facade—someone who understood longing, who knew what it meant to ache for something just out of reach.
He offered her the napkin rose. "For the lady who doesn't trust gifts."
She almost smiled. Almost. Instead, she inclined her head with regal politeness. "Thank you."
But she didn't take it.
Hurt flashed across his features, gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "Of course. Can't be too careful with strange artists bearing roses."
The music changed, shifting from waltz to something darker, more complex. Piano notes drifted across the ballroom like silk scarves in wind, and Aria found herself following the sound despite every instinct screaming at her to leave.
At the grand piano sat a man who looked like winter personified.
Adrian Elysian's silver-blond hair caught the light like moonbeams, and his profile was sharp enough to cut glass. His scarred left hand moved across the keys with impossible grace, coaxing music that made her chest ache. He played like a man possessed, like the piano held all his secrets and he was trying to set them free one note at a time.
Aria had studied him, of course. Youngest concert pianist to debut at Carnegie Hall, heir to a pharmaceutical empire, and according to gossip columns, completely untouchable. But watching him play, she saw something else—a perfectionist at war with his own impossible standards.
He hit a wrong note, barely audible to anyone else, and his entire body tensed. The music stopped.
"The second movement needs rage, not precision," Aria found herself saying, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Adrian's head snapped up, those ice-blue eyes finding hers across the room. Up close, they were devastating—the kind of pale blue that reminded her of arctic waters, beautiful and deadly. A thin scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, and instead of detracting from his beauty, it made him look like a fallen angel who'd learned to fight.
"You play?" His voice was cultured, crisp, with just enough roughness to suggest he didn't use it often for idle chatter.
"I don't play." The lie came easily. She'd played once, before her world shattered. "I survive."
Something shifted in his expression—recognition, maybe, or understanding. "The most honest thing anyone's said to me all evening."
His fingers found the keys again, and this time the music was different. Darker. It spoke of loss and longing, of beautiful things broken beyond repair. It sounded like her heart felt.
This is dangerous. All three of them were dangerous in different ways—Kael with his devastating kindness, Dante with his golden charm, Adrian with his beautiful brokenness. They were the enemy, the men whose fathers had destroyed her family, and yet...
And yet she found herself drawn to them like a moth to flame, knowing she'd burn but unable to look away.
"Excuse me." She turned on her heel, needing air, needing space, needing to remember why she was here.
The balcony was empty, moonlight dancing on the lake below. Aria gripped the marble railing and breathed deeply, trying to center herself. The night air was cool against her heated skin, and for a moment, she let herself be seventeen instead of a weapon wrapped in silk.
"Running away?"
She didn't turn around. "Seeking solitude."
Kael's footsteps were quiet against the marble as he joined her at the railing. He'd removed his suit jacket, and she could see the way his white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the strong line of his forearms where he'd rolled up his sleeves. This close, she caught his scent—cedar and espresso, with something darker underneath that made her think of midnight storms.
"You look cold." He draped his jacket around her shoulders before she could protest.
The gesture was so gentle, so unconsciously protective, that it made her chest tight. "I don't need saving."
"I know." His thumb grazed her bare shoulder where the jacket had shifted, and the touch was feather-light, there and gone. "But you look... cold."
The kindness in his voice was her undoing. She'd built her walls so high, so strong, but somehow this man with storm-gray eyes and careful hands made them feel fragile as spun glass. She found herself leaning toward him, drawn by his warmth, his solid presence.
His breath was warm against her temple. "Aria—"
Reality crashed back like a tidal wave. Remember what they did. Remember who they are.
She stepped back, shrugging out of his jacket. "I don't do knights in shining armor."
"I never claimed to be a knight." There was something raw in his voice, something that made her want to comfort him instead of running. "I'm not sure I'm even a good man."
The honesty in those words nearly broke her resolve. "Then we understand each other."
She walked away before he could respond, before she could do something stupid like believe him, like trust him, like fall for the man who'd helped destroy everything she'd ever loved.
Back in her hotel room an hour later, Aria finally allowed herself to breathe. She pulled off her gloves, her jewelry, her mask of perfect indifference, until she was just a girl who missed her parents and wanted to believe in good men.
The pocket watch sat heavy in her palm as she opened it, expecting to see her father's inscription, his steady comfort from beyond the grave.
Instead, a hologram flickered to life.
Her father's face, gaunt and desperate, stared back at her. "Aria, if you're seeing this, then I'm gone. They're not what they seem, sweetheart. Storm, Vale, Elysian—they're not the enemy. They're victims, just like us. The real threat is—"
The message cut off, the hologram dissolving into static.
The watch hands spun wildly before freezing at 3:07 AM.
The same time stamped in tiny numerals on Kael Storm's monogrammed glove.
Aria stared at the watch, her carefully constructed world tilting on its axis. Everything she thought she knew, everything she'd believed about her father's death, crumbled like sand.
If the three most powerful men in the city weren't her enemies... then who had killed her father?
And why did they want her to think it was them?
Outside her window, the city glittered like scattered diamonds, beautiful and treacherous. Somewhere out there, the real threat was watching, waiting, using her grief as a weapon against the very men who might be her only allies.
The masquerade was just beginning.
And Aria Blackthorn was no longer sure who was wearing the mask.