Just for tonight

MIRELLE

The salty taste of my tears is still fresh when a sharp knock sounds at my bedroom door. I scramble up from the floor like a frightened animal, wiping my face with the sleeves of my dress. I cannot let Callan see me crying.

"Mirelle?" Callan’s deep voice calls out from the hallway. "Are you decent? Everyone is asking for you downstairs."

I take a shaky breath, steady my nerves, and turn the brass knob.

The door swings open, and Callan stands there looking breathtaking in a sharp tuxedo with a black silk mask in his hand. But the moment his dark eyes land on my face, his expression shifts instantly from confidence to deep suspicion. His brows pull together, and his gaze zeroes in on my swollen, bloodshot eyes.

"Mirelle," Callan says, his voice dropping an octave. He steps right into the room. "Why are you crying? Did someone say something to you?"

"No, no, Callan, nothing like that," I lied quickly, forcing an unconvincing smile. "I just got some dust in my eye while packing a few old things."

Callan stops right in front of me, his dark eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "You are lying to me, Mirelle," he whispers, his voice low and rich. He reaches out, his warm thumb gently brushing against my cheekbone. "You always look away when you lie. Tell me the truth."

"I am just a little overwhelmed," I whisper back, my heart hammering. "It is my graduation day, and everything feels so big. I am okay."

Callan stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. "Alright. But if anyone ever gives you trouble tonight, you tell me immediately. Understand?"

"I understand," I murmur.

"Good. Come on," Callan says, offering a reassuring smile. He holds out his arm toward me. "Let's go."

With a trembling hand, I slip my arm through his, and together we walk out of the room and down the grand staircase.

When we reach the main ballroom, the heavy double doors push open to reveal a room glowing with hundreds of twinkling fairy lights. Soft classical music plays from the corner, and guests move gracefully across the marble floor.

"Wait," I gasp, stopping near the entrance. "A masquerade ball?"

"Surprise," Callan says with a faint smirk, holding up a silver lace mask. "Father decided a normal party was too boring. Put this on."

I tie the black ribbons of the silver mask over my face, and Callan slips his own black mask on. Before I can catch my breath, he pulls me out onto the crowded dance floor. The music swells into a slow waltz. He places one warm hand firmly on my waist and catches my hand.

"Callan, I am not very good at dancing," I murmur nervously. "I am going to step on your toes."

"Let you try," Callan teases softly, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he guides my steps effortlessly. "Just look at me, Mirelle. Forget everyone else."

I look up into his dark eyes, and for a few minutes, the whole world fades away. There is only Callan, the warmth of his hand, and the music carrying us forward.

But the peace does not last.

As we spin near a marble pillar, Callan suddenly stops. His body goes completely rigid, and he stumbles backward a half-step, gripping the column to steady himself.

"Callan?" I ask, panic spiking as I grab his arm. "What is wrong? Are you hurt?"

His breathing is ragged. His skin has gone completely pale under the dim lights. "I do not know," Callan gasps, pressing a hand against his forehead. "My head is spinning. Everything is burning."

"You are burning up," I say, terror gripping my heart. "Did you drink something?"

"Just a glass of punch by the bar," he mutters, his eyes fluttering shut as dizziness hits him hard.

"We need to get you out of here," I say urgently, wrapping his arm over my shoulder. "Lean on me. I am going to get you to your room."

With every ounce of strength, I guide him away from the crowd, up the grand staircase, and straight into his bedroom suite. I drop him safely onto the center of his wide bed. He groans, pulling loosely at the top buttons of his tuxedo shirt.

"Callan? Can you hear me?" I ask, my hands shaking.

His eyes open slowly, hazy and unfocused. He reaches out blindly, catching my wrist in a firm grip and pulling me down so hard I fall right to my knees beside the mattress.

"Please..." Callan groans, his voice thick with a desperate, feverish plea. "Please... help me, Mirelle."

My breath catches in my throat. In my naive, frightened mind, tangled in years of secret longing, the words sound entirely different. Help me. And right here, alone in the dark bedroom, my mind screams: He wants you.

"Callan, I..." I whisper, my cheeks burning bright red. "Are you sure? I am right here."

Callan’s brow knits together in pain. His head rolls on the pillows. Then, his lips part, and a name slips out of his mouth like a sharp knife driving straight into my heart.

"Anya..." he mutters softly, his voice full of a longing that has nothing to do with me. "Anya... why did you leave me?"

The room spins violently. All warmth drains completely out of my body, leaving me cold, hollow, and shattered. Even now, his heart is still reaching for her.

I pull my wrist back from his grip, tears stinging my eyes, ready to stand up, walk out of the room, and leave him forever.

But then, as I look down at his suffering face, something snaps deep inside my soul. An overwhelming, reckless wave of obsession takes over.

Why not?

Why can't it be me, just for tonight? I am leaving tomorrow anyway. What do I have left to lose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

My breathing turns shallow and fast. My hands begin to shake as a daring plan forms in my head.

I stand up slowly from the bedside. Without making a sound, I walk over to the dark corner of Callan’s spacious bedroom where he keeps his spare props. My fingers brush across a familiar black lace mask resting on the shelf—the exact same mask Anya wore tonight.

My heart pounds so hard I am certain he can hear it. With trembling fingers, I pick up Anya's mask, slide it over my face, and adjust the black ribbons.

I walk slowly back to the bed.

Callan is tossing and turning, his breathing heavy. He hears my footsteps approaching the mattress, and his glassy eyes snap open in a hopeful haze.

"Anya?" Callan whispers into the dark, squinting through the dim light at the mask on my face. "Is that really you?"

I stand completely still beside the bed. I do not say a single word. Because the moment I speak, the illusion will shatter and he will know I am just Mirelle.

Instead, with trembling fingers, I reach over to the wall switch and click the lights off.

The bedroom plunges into absolute, pitch-black darkness, hiding my face, hiding my tears, and hiding the truth, leaving only the heat of our bodies in the quiet night.