CHAPTER 1

SASKIA POV

The bass didn’t just play through the speakers; it vibrated right through the soles of my heels, thumping against my ribs like a warning. The air inside The Vault tasted like expensive gin, smoky tobacco, and heavy perfume. It was suffocating, but it was exactly what I needed.

I adjusted the silver, velvet-trimmed mask over my eyes. It felt heavy, but it was my armor tonight. For the past twenty-one years, I had been Saskia Beaumont—the perfect daughter, the quiet heiress, the girl who smiled for the cameras while her stepmother slowly drained her spirit. Tonight, I was no one. Just a girl celebrating her birthday in a room full of beautiful, faceless strangers.

"Another one," I said, sliding my empty glass across the marble bar.

The bartender didn’t ask questions. He just poured the amber liquid and pushed it back to me.

"You're drinking fast for someone who keeps looking at the exit," a deep, quiet voice murmured from my left.

I froze, my fingers wrapping around the cold glass. I hadn't noticed him sit down next to me. He wore a matte black mask that covered the upper half of his face, leaving only a sharp, stubbled jawline and a pair of intensely dark eyes visible. He wore a tailored black suit, but he had undone the top two buttons of his shirt, giving him a dangerous, relaxed look. He didn’t look like the boys I went to college with. He looked like a man who knew exactly how much power he held in a room.

"I’m not looking at the exit," I lied, turning my head slightly to face him. "I'm just enjoying the view."

A faint, amused smirk touched his lips. "Is that so? Because you've checked your watch three times in the last ten minutes, and you haven't taken a single sip of that drink since I sat down."

I felt a sudden, sharp heat climb up my neck. I raised the glass to my lips, took a long swallow, and winced slightly at the burn. "There. Satisfied?"

"Impressive," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that somehow cut right through the loud music. "But you still look like you’re running from something."

If only you knew. Tomorrow, the lawyers would read my father’s final will. Tomorrow, my stepmother would try every trick in the book to keep me under her thumb. But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I wanted to be reckless. I wanted to feel alive.

"Maybe I am," I said, leaning an inch closer. The scent of him hit me then—something dark, woody, and expensive. "Are you going to stop me?"

"Depends on where you're running to," he replied. He didn't move away. His dark eyes locked onto mine through the cutouts of our masks, holding me captive. "And who you're running with."

"I haven't decided yet," I whispered, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, much faster than the bass of the music.

He didn't say another word. Instead, he stood up, picked up his drink, and tilted his head toward the back corridor of the club—the hallway that led to the private VIP rooms. It wasn't an invitation made with words, but the sheer confidence in his posture made my breath catch in my throat.

Just one night, I told myself. One night to forget everything.

I stood up, my knees slightly shaky, and followed him.

The corridor was much quieter, the walls lined with dark velvet panels that muffled the sound of the dance floor. He opened a heavy mahogany door at the very end of the hall and stepped inside, holding it open for me. The room was small, lit only by a dim, amber wall sconce. A leather sofa sat against the wall.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the club completely, the atmosphere changed. It became heavy, thick with tension.

He set his glass down on a small side table and turned around. "You're very brave for following a stranger into a dark room, sweetheart."

"You don't feel like a stranger," I said, though my hands were trembling behind my back.

"No?" He took a slow step forward, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head up to look at him. He was tall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over me. "What do I feel like?"

"Like trouble," I breathed.

He let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest. "You have no idea."

He reached out, his long fingers brushing against the edge of my silver mask. His touch was warm, sending a sharp jolt of electricity straight down my spine. I gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to drown out the voice in my head telling me to be careful.

When his lips met mine, all thoughts of my family, the inheritance, and tomorrow vanished. The kiss was slow at first, a firm, testing pressure that made me gasp. He used that moment to deepen it, his hands moving to my waist, gripping me tightly against his hard chest.

"You're trembling," he murmured against my lips, his breath hot.

"I'm fine," I gasped, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him back down. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He lifted me effortlessly, setting me down on the edge of the leather sofa. His hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of my hip, sliding up the silk of my dress, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Every touch was dominant, demanding, and utterly intoxicating. I had never felt anything like this. It wasn't the clumsy, hesitant touch of the guys I knew. He handled me like he owned me, and for the first time in my life, I wanted to submit to someone else's control.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his voice rough.

I opened my eyes, my vision slightly blurred by heat and desire. He was looking down at me, his gaze fierce, burning right through his mask. He reached up, his fingers hooking under the strap of my dress, slowly sliding it down my shoulder. His lips followed, kissing a path down my neck, biting gently at the sensitive spot where my shoulder met my throat. I arched into him, a soft cry escaping my lips.

The rest of the night became a blur of friction, heavy breathing, and skin against skin. In the dim amber light of the locked room, we moved together with a desperate, unspoken hunger. There were no names exchanged, no promises made—just the raw, overwhelming sensation of his body over mine, driving out every fear I had ever carried.

Hours later, the room had grown cold.

I woke up with my cheek pressed against the leather sofa, my breath shallow. The amber sconce was still glowing faintly. I sat up, clutching the torn strap of my silk dress to my chest.

The room was empty.

I looked around, my heart sinking into my stomach. He was gone. The only proof that he had ever been there was the lingering scent of tobacco and leather on my skin, and the quiet ache between my thighs.

I found my shoes scattered on the floor, my silver mask lying near the table. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the velvet edge. It was over. The clock on my phone read 4:00 AM.

I stood up, adjusting my ruined dress as best as I could, and walked out into the empty hallway.

"Hey, miss! You need a cab?" the doorman asked as I stepped out into the freezing morning air.

"Yes, please," I said, my voice hoarse.