“Disappointing.”
“I prefer data.”
She laughed softly at that, the sound low and unforced. “You’re not here for pleasure.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” I said.
“Work, then?”
“Always.”
“Even tonight?”
“Especially tonight.”
She studied me in silence, like she was fitting puzzle pieces together. Most people tried to fill the silence with noise. She let it stretch. I respected that.
“And yet,” she said eventually, “you have spent most of your time looking at me, and then you decided to walk over here.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The honest answer would have been, because I couldn’t not, but I gave her something else instead.
“Curiosity.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to my mask. “You don’t look like a curious man.”
“What do I look like?”
“Like someone who already knows the answers.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’re better at pretending than most people are.”
“And you?” I asked. “What are you pretending to be tonight?”
She took a small sip of champagne, never breaking eye contact. “Anonymous.”
“That’s not a personality.”
“It’s freedom.”
A beat passed.
“Is it?” I asked quietly.
She smiled slightly, but there was something sharper beneath it. “Isn’t that the point of a masquerade? You remove the name, the history, the expectations. You get to exist without context.”
“Context is what makes things interesting.”
“It’s also what makes them dangerous.”
The music shifted. It was slower now. Darker. The bassline deeper, strings sliding over it like tension pulled too tight. I held her gaze for another second before extending my hand.
