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Their eyes met mine, and in their depths, I found courage weaving through my nerves like silver threads.
“To friendship,” I finished for us all, “the magic that makes all things possible.”…
Our glasses clinked—a crystalline song—and we drank. The bubbles danced on my tongue as we shared this moment of solidarity; three women on the precipice of an evening that felt like it had been plucked from fairy tales.
As buildings adorned with lights whisked by our windows, I let myself be carried away by dreams spun into reality by two women who believed I deserved more than just tired mornings and weary nights.
Tonight, Mila Johnson would step out of this limo not just cloaked in blue silk and hidden behind feathers but reborn into a world where even stars might envy her shine.
***
The limousine’s purr quieted to a whisper as it glided to a stop in front of the Wintertide Hotel. The building towered above us, each window glowing like a promise. It was a castle in the heart of the city, and for one enchanted evening, I was to be part of its legacy.
I sat back against the leather, my fingers tracing the cool flute of champagne, its bubbles tickling my nose. The liquid courage filled me with each sip, my nerves settling as Josie and Melody chattered away. They had been my pillars, propping me up with their unwavering belief in this madcap plan. Josie leaned forward.
“Mila, you’re about to have the night of your life,” she said, her grin infectious.
Melody nodded in agreement, her eyes taking in every detail of my transformation. “Just remember who you are inside—that’s what truly shines.”
Their words wove a safety net around me as the limousine door swung open. The night air caressed my skin, the murmur of distant voices calling like a siren song. I took one last deep breath and stepped out into the limelight.
Heels clicking on the cobblestone, I felt every eye on me. I was no longer Mila Johnson, maid of the Wintertide Hotel; I was a mystery swathed in royal blue, an enigma among the city’s elite. My heart thundered in my chest as I crossed the threshold of the grand entrance.
With each step into that opulent foyer, my old world—the endless workdays and heavy responsibilities—fell away like a discarded cloak. Tonight, I was reborn under a masquerade’s forgiving guise. Even if just for the night, this world of grandeur was mine to claim.
Chapter Five
Mila
The plush carpet beneath my heels muffled my steps as I crossed the threshold into the ballroom. I paused, letting the door close softly behind me, and inhaled deeply. A blend of expensive perfumes and the subtle hint of wax from polished floors tickled my senses. Strings of delicate music notes floated through the air, wrapping around me like a lover’s whisper. My heart throbbed in my chest, each beat a mix of nervousness and thrill.
For a moment, I felt frozen in time, my gaze drifting over the sea of sequins and silk. The chandeliers above bathed everyone in a warm, golden glow, their crystals casting dancing lights on the walls. I tightened my grip on my clutch, a silent pep talk willing strength into my limbs. With a shaky breath that felt like the first after a deep dive, I stepped forward.
The mask was my shield, the intricate patterns and feathers a disguise that granted me the courage of anonymity. I found myself weaving through clusters of laughing guests, their conversations bubbling around me like champagne. A server offered me a glass from a gleaming tray, and I accepted it with a smile partly obscured behind my mask.
Sipping the effervescent liquid, I let it embolden me further. Here in this grand room, no one knew Mila Johnson the maid; they only saw a mysterious woman in royal blue. Each step felt lighter than the last as if I was shedding layers of my worn-out daily self with every inch I moved across the floor.
The laughter, the music, it all swirled into a melody that beckoned me to forget who I was outside these walls. The opulence enveloped me—a dream spun from threads of moonlight and stardust. As I twirled under the light, laughter escaping from deep within me, I couldn’t help but believe in this enchantment.
For tonight, just for these few hours, I wasn’t just Mila; I was part of something ethereal—a character from those stories my mother used to whisper before bed. And as the room spun gently around me with each turn on the dance floor, reality slipped away like sand through open fingers. Here, under this spellbinding dome of splendor and masquerade, I danced—not as a maid or caretaker—but as a woman touched by magic’s grace.
I leaned against an ornate pillar, its cool marble surface grounding me as I observed this other world. It was like peering through a window into a life where worry about bills and responsibilities was as foreign as the designer labels adorning every guest. Their concerns were of a different sort—politics, business mergers, and vacation plans to exotic locales.
The very fabric of their existence was woven with threads of privilege and ease. Each person moved with an unconscious assurance that life would continue to unfold favorably for them. And why wouldn’t it? In their world, every door opened with a smile or a handshake, not with the worn key of a weary maid who knew only labor from dawn till dusk.
I watched as couples took to the dance floor, moving with a grace I could only dream of emulating. Their steps were rehearsed, perfected by years of lessons and galas like this one. I stood on the periphery, my back pressed to the cool marble as they spun past me in their finery.
A woman in a gown that shimmered like the night sky laughed at something her partner whispered in her ear. The sound was musical and unburdened—what must it be like to laugh without the weight of constant worry? To simply exist in this bubble of splendor?
Yet even as I pondered their foreign lives, my feet tapped to the rhythm of the music. It flowed through me, inviting me to shed my invisible shackles for just one evening. The masquerade mask felt less like a disguise now and more like permission to dream—a doorway into a realm where I wasn’t Mila Johnson, maid extraordinaire, but someone else entirely.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and let myself sway slightly with the music. I imagined what it would be like to be one of them—to be looked upon with admiration rather than invisibility; to know that when I spoke, my words would be heard not because they were demanded but because they were desired.
Opening my eyes, I watched as two dancers spun dangerously close before laughing off their near collision. It was beautiful here amidst the dance—a symphony of movement and mirth—and for that fleeting moment, I allowed myself to belong.
Drifting through the crowds, I moved like a shadow, unnoticed yet acutely aware of every glittering eye and painted smile that turned in my direction. The gentle murmur of conversations blended into a symphony of opulence that surrounded me, yet one sensation stood apart from the rest—a gaze that bore into me with an intensity that felt almost physical.
I paused, a statue among the living portraits of affluence, and let my eyes scan the sea of masked faces. The feeling of being watched did not wane; it was like a spotlight fixed solely on me. And then, through the cavalcade of disguises and half-hidden faces, I found him. Even obscured by his own ornate mask, there was no mistaking those eyes—Cassius Portman.
