The mask was a prison of her own making.
Raine Sterling adjusted the silver raven mask, its feathers cool against her flushed skin. From behind the eyeholes, the charity gala swirled into a haze of impossible wealth—crystal glasses catching light, diamonds flashing on throats, laughter that sounded like money. She didn't belong here. The ticket had been a fluke, a prize from a business competition she'd never expected to win. Her simple black dress felt like a costume next to the custom gowns, but the mask was her armor. Here, she wasn't the scholarship student from a struggling neighborhood. She was no one. She was anonymous.
And she was desperately, painfully bored.
"Another fundraiser where the champagne costs more than my tuition," a low, amused voice said beside her.
Raine turned. A man leaned against the pillar next to her, holding two glasses of sparkling water. His mask was simpler than the elaborate ones around them—smooth silver, shaped like a wolf's head. It hid the upper half of his face, but revealed a strong jaw and a mouth currently curved in a faint, mocking smile.
"And yet you're here," Raine said, accepting the glass he offered. Her heart gave a stupid, small jump. *Stop it. He's just another rich guy.*
"A necessary evil," he said. His voice was a quiet rumble, a sound that seemed to vibrate in her bones. "My attendance is… expected. Yours?"
"A fluke." She took a sip. The water was crisp, cold. "I'm just observing the ecosystem."
"The ecosystem?" He moved slightly closer. Not enough to be improper, but enough that she caught the scent of him—clean linen, cedar, something dark and expensive. "And what have you concluded, behind the raven's mask?"
"That it's a beautiful display of mutual back-patting," she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. She was tired, her feet hurt in the borrowed heels, and the fakeness of the room was a physical weight. "Everyone is trading favors, and the charity is just the setting. The real business happens in the whispers."
He didn't look offended. He looked intrigued. "Hopeless."
"Realistic," she countered. "There's a difference."
"There is." He set his glass down on a passing tray. "Would the realist like to escape the whispers for a dance? The music is dreadful, but at least it's loud."
It was a terrible idea. Every sensible part of her screamed to make an excuse, to go find the coat check, to leave. But the part of her that was suffocating in this luxurious room, the part that was tired of being careful and poor and invisible, won. She placed her hand in his.
"A dance," she agreed. "Nothing more."
On the crowded dance floor, his hand settled on the lower part of her back. It was a light touch, but it burned through the fabric of her dress. The orchestra played something slow and sweeping. He was a good dancer, leading with a confidence that felt natural, not practiced.
"You never gave me your name," he said, his voice close to her ear.
"You never gave me yours."
"You can call me Thorn."
A shiver traced her spine. "Thorn. As in, a point of irritation?"
"As in, the sharp part that protects the rose," he replied, his thumb making a slow, unconscious circle on her back. "And you?"
"Raven," she said, the lie coming easily. Here, she could be anyone.
They didn't speak for a moment, moving to the music. Her body was hyper-aware of his—the solid wall of his chest, the shift of muscle under his tailored tuxedo. This was madness. She was dancing with a stranger whose name was probably fake, in a room full of people who could buy and sell her life without noticing. Yet, for the first time all night, she didn't feel like an imposter. She felt seen.
"Why are you really here, Raven?" he asked, his voice dropping. "The fluke answer won't work twice."
The directness startled her. She looked up, meeting his eyes through the masks. The lights caught them, a shade of cool grey like a winter sea. "To remember why I'm fighting so hard to get in," she confessed, the truth pulled from her before she could filter it. "Sometimes the world you want to join looks… hollow, up close. It's good to remember the cost."
"What are you fighting to get into?"
"The real world. The one with power. Where decisions aren't just made for you." She thought of her mother's tired smile, the stack of medical bills on their kitchen table. "Where you can build something that doesn't blow away in the first storm."
He was quiet, studying her as they turned. "Most people here were born inside the walls. They don't see them as walls. They see them as… home."
"And you?" she dared to ask. "Do you see the walls?"
His hand tightened almost subtle on hers. "Every damn day."
The song ended. Another began, faster this time. He didn't let her go. Instead, he guided her off the dance floor, through an archway draped in velvet, and out onto a wide, empty terrace overlooking the city. The cold night air hit her skin, a shock after the warmth inside. The sounds of the gala became a distant murmur.
"Better?" Thorn asked, releasing her hand.
She walked to the stone railing, gripping it with suddenly unsteady fingers. The city spread out below, a galaxy of lights. "Yes. Thank you."
He came to stand beside her, not touching, but close enough that his body heat was a touchable force. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was thick, charged. The facelessness of the masks created a dangerous illusion of safety. She could say anything here. So could he.
"You said the cost," he said finally. "What's the cost for you?"
Raine closed her eyes. "Forgetting where I came from. Becoming so focused on climbing that I become like them." She nodded back toward the ballroom. "Cold. Transactional."
"And if the climb requires you to be cold? To see people as transactions?"
Her chest ached. "Then maybe I'll fail."
He turned to face her fully. "Or maybe you'll be the one who changes the rules from the inside."
The hope in his words was a dangerous, beautiful thing. She turned to him. "Is that what you're doing? Changing the rules?"
A bitter, quiet laugh escaped him. "Trying. And failing more often than not. The walls are higher when you're supposed to be the one guarding them."
She understood then. He wasn't just a guest. He was one of them. A king in his own gilded cage. The realization should have made her step back. Instead, it pulled her closer. Here was someone who understood the prison, even if his was made of gold and hers of necessity.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The air vanished from her lungs. Every warning bell in her mind was drowned out by the roaring of her own blood. This was a line, and she was about to cross it with a man whose last name she didn't know.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"The worst," he agreed, his own voice rough.
He didn't move. The choice was hers. The city twinkled, indifferent. The mask hid her, but it also freed her. For one night, she didn't have to be Raine Sterling, fighter, burden-carrier, future intern. She could just be a woman, wanted by a compelling stranger.
She reached up and touched the edge of his wolf mask. Her fingertips brushed his skin, and he inhaled sharply. That tiny reaction soothe her. She leaned in.
The first kiss was a question. Soft, hesitant. His lips were warm. He went perfectly still, as if she'd shocked him. Then, a low sound escaped his throat, and his hands came up to cradle her face, his fingers tangling in the ribbons of her mask. The second kiss was an answer. It was not gentle. It was a claiming, a release. It was all the frustration of her life, all the loneliness of his, meeting in a spark that turned into a wildfire.
Reason disappeared. The cold stone of the terrace railing pressed into her back as he pushed her gently against it, his body aligning with hers. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles tense under the fine wool. His mouth left hers to trail desperate, hot kisses down her throat, and she gasped, her head falling back. The world narrowed to sensation the scrape of his beard, the sure stroke of his hands down her sides, the shocking, electric feel of him against her.
Somehow, they stumbled through another door still
lost in each others lips, into a dim, private sitting room adjoining the terrace. A single lamp glowed. He locked the door with a decisive click. The sound was low. There was no going back.
He removed his mask first, tossing it onto a sofa. Her breath caught. He was… severe. Beautiful in a hard, carved way. High cheekbones, that strong jaw now set with tension, and those intense grey eyes, now darkened with a hunger that made her knees weak. He looked like a prince from a story, the kind who wins wars and breaks hearts.
He came to her and slowly, carefully, untied her mask. It fell away. She felt terrifyingly exposed, but his gaze held no judgment, only awe.
"Raven," he murmured, as if her fake name was a prayer.
His hands mapped her body, as if committing every curve to memory. She pulled him closer, her fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth traveled from her lips to her throat to her collarbone. Every touch was a question; every response an answer. The lamp cast shadows across the walls, as breath quickened, as the space between them disappeared entirely.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her skin, his voice ragged.
"Don't," she breathed. "Don't stop."
He kissed her again, and this time, there was a devastating tenderness mixed with the hunger. It shattered the last of her defenses. He removed her clothes kissing every part of her body, she felt more exposed but she wanted all of him his hands found his way to her full breasts and fiddled with her nipples hungrily her lips parted and she let out a soft moan as she laid in sofa moaning unintelligible words.
"Raven", your….your body is to be adored all of you he moaned as his lips found his way back to her nipples. She could feel a surge through her body and the wetness buildup in her p*ssy she couldn't take it any more she whispered in his ears f*ck me!
He caressed her body with his fingers every touch was a spark her body answered to it. He placed his finger through her lacy p*nties and he dipped his fingers slowly watching her reaction to his every stroke. His body was trembling with excitement passion and pleasure he wanted to fill her up with his d*ck and enjoying every bit of it.
"Thorn", she murmured don't go easy on me f*ck me like you own it. This words sent shivers down his spine, but he wanted to know how she tasted then he moved downwards and buried his head in her p*ssy. She felt his tongue on her clit she moaned loudly yes….yes make me c*m pushing his head, her legs were carelessly hanging in the air as she was consumed by pleasure.
Every moan, ever whisper of pleasure, every squirm made his d•ck harder then he pull out his d*ck and slid it inside her wetness she moaned with pleasure as he thrust hard and fast his heart pounding against her chest. Every touch of skin on skin was an electric shock, a relief, a homecoming she hadn't known she was seeking.
Later, tangled in the sheets of a silken sofa, the first hint of grey dawn lightening the sky beyond the windows, reality began its cold creep back into the room. His arm was heavy and warm across her waist, his breathing slow and even against her hair. She lay perfectly still, memorizing the feel of him, the scent of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under her palm.
This was a fantasy. A perfect, stolen bubble in time. It couldn't survive the daylight, or the names they would have to give each other, or the worlds they came from which were oceans apart.
Her heart, which had been racing with passion, now clenched with a deep, sorrowful ache. This was the cost, right here. This beautiful, impossible connection that had to end with the sun.
Slowly, carefully, she extracted herself from his embrace. He murmured in his sleep but didn't wake. She dressed in the silent room, her hands trembling. She looked at him one last time—the powerful stranger who had seen her, just her, for a few hours. She left the silver raven mask on the table beside him. A token. A goodbye.
She slipped out of the room, out of the gala, and into the waking city. The cold morning air felt like a slap. The magic was gone, leaving only a profound, hollowing loneliness. She had gotten what she wanted—an escape, a memory of feeling powerful and desired. So why did she feel like she'd lost something she never even had?
"It was just one night", she told herself firmly, hailing a taxi. "A beautiful mistake."
On Monday morning, Raine Sterling walked into the soaring, icy lobby of Montgomery Industries for her first day as a corporate intern. Her comfortable blouse felt stiff, her portfolio was clutched too tightly in her hand. She was ready to work, to climb, to forget.
The elevator doors opened to the first executive floor. As she stepped out, a group of men in impeccable suits rounded the corner, led by a man whose very presence seemed to charge the air with quiet authority. He was discussing something in a low, definitive voice—a voice that had whispered in her ear in the dark.
Her eyes lifted to his face.
The world stopped.
The severe, perfect face from the sitting room. The winter-grey eyes.
Declan Montgomery, the legendary CEO, the man she was supposed to avoid at all costs, scanned the new interns with a look of detached impatience.
His gaze passed over her without a flicker of recognition.
But Raine's heart didn't just race it plunged into a freefall of pure, and absolute terror. The memory of his hands on her skin turned to ice. The mask was gone. The only thing left was the rule she had already broken, and the man who could destroy her future with a single word.