The Gala of Masks

His words hang in the air. Like a warning, maybe it is one.

“You’re the only person I let see me like this. Why?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is too tight, my mind too loud. All I can do is stare at him—his body bruised, his skin marked, his eyes locked on mine.

This is Damian Blackthorne stripped of his armor. Not the untouchable king of boardrooms, not the sharp suit and colder smile. Just a man, battered and bare, asking me a question I cannot afford to answer.

Why me?

Because I’m not who you think I am. Because I’m here to kill you. Because if you knew, you’d never let me breathe another second. Because you have been nothing but good to me, but i need to fulfill my plans , be it as it may.

I force a mask over my face, the only shield I have. I give him a small smile, the kind that means nothing, and say, “You don’t pay me enough to answer personal questions.”

His mouth curves, almost amused, but his eyes don’t soften. They stay sharp, probing, like he wants to cut through me. Then, just as quickly, he looks away and finishes tying the bandage.

The moment passes. But my heart doesn’t slow for a long time.

The gala arrives two nights later.

It is the kind of event most people only dream of—glittering chandeliers, crystal glasses, gowns stitched with jewels, laughter floating like smoke. Men with too much money. Women with too much ambition. Power disguised as charm.

And me, walking at Damian’s side, the perfect mask in place.

To the crowd, I am Aria Vale—his flawless aide, his confidante, his shadow. I hand him a glass of champagne. I murmur reminders of names and titles. I laugh when required. I smile when expected.

Inside, my stomach twists.

Because this night could be the night.

Here, among the glitter and lies, no guards hover close. No board members watch with sharp eyes. He has brought me as his only companion. His trust laid bare in the simplest gesture: walking into a room filled with enemies with only me at his side.

My dagger is hidden beneath silk, strapped against my thigh. Every step I take reminds me of it. Every smile I fake tastes of blood.

One strike. One kill.

The chance I’ve been waiting for.

Damian is magnetic in this world. The room bends to him. Politicians seek his ear, businessmen his approval, women his gaze. He gives none freely. His smiles are rare, his words calculated, his eyes sharp enough to slice.

And yet—he glances at me often. A subtle look. A small tilt of his head as if to ask if I’m all right. It unsettles me, how easily he threads me into his power, how natural it feels to stand beside him.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I have to.

The clinking of glass silences the room. Damian lifts his champagne, standing taller than anyone else in the hall. All eyes turn to him. The weight of his presence presses against my skin.

He speaks. Smooth. Confident. Dangerous.

He talks of loyalty. Of strength. Of betrayal. His words weave like silk and steel, drawing nods, smiles, nervous laughter. He is not just a man here—he is gravity, pulling everyone into his orbit.

And then his gaze locks on mine.

For one breath, one endless heartbeat, it feels as if his toast is meant only for me. His words about betrayal burn into my chest, searing, unrelenting.

My throat dries. My palms sweat. Does he know?

I force my lips into a smile, raise my glass, and drink. The champagne tastes like ash.

Later, after the music swells and the crowd drowns in laughter and wine, he pulls me aside. His hand brushes my back as he guides me through a quiet door, up a narrow staircase, onto the rooftop terrace.

The city sprawls below us, glittering like a sea of fallen stars. The air is cooler here, crisp against my skin. The noise of the gala fades, leaving only silence, only him.

Damian loosens his tie, breathes in deep, and looks out at the lights. For a moment, he seems less king, more man. His voice is low when he finally speaks.

“Everyone close to me betrays me,” he says. His eyes don’t leave the city. “Friends. Lovers. Even family.” He pauses, then turns, his gaze locking onto me. “I just hope you never do.”

The words pierce me. A blade of their own.

Because they’re true. He trusts me. More than anyone. Enough to expose his bruises. Enough to bring me here, alone. Enough to confess his wounds to me.

And I am about to use that trust as my weapon.

My hand drifts to the dagger hidden beneath my gown. My fingers curl around the hilt. Smooth. Cold. Final.

One strike. One kill.

His life for theirs.

My heart thunders. My throat burns. My hand shakes, just slightly, and I hate myself for it. Because this is what I wanted. This is why I crawled out of that hospital bed. Why I built myself again from ash and pain.

For this moment.

I step closer. He doesn’t move. His eyes search mine, calm, almost gentle.

I lean in. My lips brush his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

And then I plunge the dagger into his chest.