Chapter Five – The Masquerade of Shadows

The limo door opened into a blur of light, music, and masked faces. Ayla stepped out onto the cobbled drive of the Serrano estate, her heels clicking softly against stone polished to a mirror finish. Above her, chandeliers flickered beneath a vast glass dome, casting broken stars across the arriving guests. Everything reeked of power and decadence.

Her mask — crafted in deep black velvet, lined with silver embroidery — clung to her face like second skin. Lucian’s note had come with a final line: “The devil doesn’t wear horns. He wears charm. Find his weakness.”

Ayla exhaled slowly. She was no longer Ayla Monroe. Not here.

Tonight, she was a ghost.

Inside, the gala pulsed with orchestrated elegance. Women in gowns worth more than Ayla’s rent glided past men with blood-stained hands wrapped in Armani. Waiters floated by with champagne. It would’ve been beautiful if she didn’t know who half these people were — or what they’d done to get here.

Lucian’s voice echoed in her mind: “Serrano traffics secrets. You’ll be one of them by midnight if you fail.”

Her target was Eduardo Serrano — arms dealer, tech smuggler, cartel financier. He operated behind dozens of proxies, rarely showed his face. But tonight, rumor had it he’d appear. Tonight, Ayla had one job: get close, make contact, and plant the drive hidden in the clasp of her clutch. It would hijack his encrypted files, upload everything to Lucian’s servers.

Simple.

If she didn’t die trying.

She moved through the crowd like smoke, scanning faces, noting bodyguards, counting exits. Her instincts sharpened with each step. She didn’t belong here, but she could play like she did.

A tuxedoed man stepped in front of her, offering a flute of champagne.

“You’re not on the list,” he said quietly, voice clipped. Russian accent. Security.

She smiled beneath the mask. “I’m not supposed to be.”

His eyes narrowed. “Name.”

“Does it matter?” she said, tilting her head. “I came for Serrano. He knows me.”

A pause. A flicker of doubt. Then a subtle nod — and he stepped aside.

One lie down. A hundred more to go.

She slipped deeper into the main ballroom. Golden light fell over an enormous staircase where a man began to descend. The room hushed. The orchestra paused mid-note.

There he was.

Eduardo Serrano.

Early forties. Bronze skin. Tailored navy suit. His mask was simple — gold, half-face — but it didn’t hide the predator underneath. His smile was lazy. Dangerous. He moved like a man who believed the world belonged to him.

And for tonight, maybe it did.

Ayla kept her distance, orbiting through the room like a shadow. She watched. Waited. Serrano laughed with a Saudi prince, then whispered into the ear of a tech mogul wanted in six countries. Everyone wanted a piece of him.

But Ayla only needed three seconds.

That’s how long it would take to slip the drive into his personal tablet. Which meant she needed to get close. Fast.

She approached the bar, her eyes flicking to a mirrored pillar where she could watch Serrano’s reflection. He was walking — straight toward her.

A chill slithered up her spine. Not panic. Not fear. Calculation.

She turned just as he reached her.

“Strange,” Serrano said, voice smooth as aged rum. “I thought I knew everyone worth knowing.”

Ayla tilted her head, letting her lips curl. “Then perhaps you’ve missed someone.”

He laughed softly. “Who are you?”

She met his gaze through the mask. “A curiosity.”

Serrano leaned closer, interest sparking in his dark eyes. “And what brings a curiosity to my party?”

She tapped her glass to his. “Opportunity.”

He studied her. Too smart. Too watchful.

“I don’t like surprises,” he said, but his tone held no malice. “And yet, I find myself intrigued.”

“I’m full of contradictions,” she replied.

He extended his hand. “Dance with me. I want to know more.”

She hesitated — then placed her hand in his.

The orchestra swelled.

They moved onto the floor, surrounded by swirling silk and whispered deals. Serrano held her like he owned her. Ayla let him — for now.

“Your hands,” he said softly, “aren’t a dancer’s. You’ve done other things. Built things.”

She flinched, just slightly. He noticed.

Too observant.

She forced a laugh. “Maybe I break things.”

“I’d believe it.”

As they twirled, his hand brushed the clutch at her side. Too close. She pulled slightly away, keeping the drive protected.

“You’re nervous,” he said.

“No,” she lied.

Serrano leaned down, lips near her ear. “You’re not here for fun. You’re here for something.”

Before she could respond, the music halted.

A shot rang out.

Screams tore through the ballroom as a man collapsed near the buffet. Blood pooled. Chaos erupted.

Serrano cursed and turned, signaling his guards. Ayla seized her moment — she slipped the drive from her clutch and flicked it beneath a tray on the table Serrano had just left. His tablet rested there, unguarded.

Transmission would begin the moment the device synced.

Done.

She backed into the crowd, heart racing. Her mask now felt suffocating.

She needed to vanish before Serrano noticed. But as she turned—

A hand gripped her wrist.

Not Serrano.

Lucian.

He’d come.

His own mask was plain black, emotionless — like death himself.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

“I told you,” Lucian said, low and cold. “No improvising.”

“I planted the drive.”

“I didn’t authorize the kill shot.”

Her blood froze.

“You?” she whispered.

Lucian’s eyes glinted. “You think Serrano was your test? No, Ayla. The test was what you’d do when the plan changed. And now I know.”

He let go of her wrist just as sirens wailed in the distance.

“Go,” he said. “Before they lock down the gates.”

“What happens now?”

Lucian leaned in. “Now, you learn what kind of game you’re really playing.”