The Ruthless Elite

The Vale name once commanded silence. Reverence. Fear.

Now, it was ash—buried beneath scandal, betrayal, and the kind of disgrace that didn’t fade with time.

But tonight, Aria Vale would bring it back from the grave.

The black car eased to a stop in front of Ebonhall, its engine purring like a predator in waiting. Aria’s fingers smoothed over the silk of her gown as she stared at the grand estate. Spires clawed at the sky, wrapped in crawling ivy. Warm, golden light bled from tall arched windows. It was all so decadently untouched by the rot underneath.

The Masquerade of the Twelve.

The most sacred event of the Order.

Invitation-only. Heirs, titans, traitors in gold. And tonight, she’d infiltrate it with a forged name, a stolen past, and a plan soaked in vengeance.

The chauffeur opened her door.

Cold air bit into her skin like teeth, but she welcomed it. It reminded her she was alive. Not just surviving. Returning.

Aria stepped out.

Her heels tapped softly against the marble driveway. Black silk whispered around her legs, the slit in her gown revealing a glimpse of pale thigh—and the sheath hidden there. Her mask was smooth bone-white, expressionless, with a slash of red from corner to chin.

A statement. A warning.

She had bled before. She would bleed again.

Eyes followed her as she ascended the steps.

Some curious.

Some suspicious.

All unaware of the ruin she carried beneath her stillness.

Inside, the ballroom was a cathedral of opulence.

Black marble floors, high ceilings trimmed in gold, and chandeliers that cast fractured light over masks of every shape and shade.

She moved like smoke through it all, every step measured. The music swelled in the background—violins and piano, haunting and sharp, like something beautiful unraveling.

Aria’s gaze swept the crowd.

They were all here: The children of empire. Daughters of warlords, sons of financial kings, politicians wrapped in silk, devils dressed as nobility.

And among them, he would be here too.

Damien Voss.

Her father’s favorite enemy. The one who signed his execution under the Order’s seal. The man who spoke at the funeral with a hand over his heart and a knife behind his back.

She hadn’t seen him in four years. But she’d studied him for eight.

Aria knew the way he moved, the way he smiled when cornered. The way his lies coiled behind truth like snakes in tall grass.

And she would make him remember her.

Even if it killed her.

“Name?” a voice interrupted.

She turned to find a masked Gatekeeper beside the entrance to the inner chamber. Clipboard. Golden mask. Empty eyes.

She smiled beneath hers. “Valencia D’Arien.”

The lie slid off her tongue like silk.

“House sponsor?”

“Lord Thorne.”

He didn’t question it. She’d made sure the name was in the books, signed in the right ink, backed by a bribe whispered to the right ears.

The Gatekeeper stepped aside.

And Aria Vale stepped through the gates of the elite once more.

The ballroom stretched wider now, the heart of the Masquerade. Velvet-draped balconies overhead. Ornate staircases. Tables with caviar and poison. Every conversation laced with meaning. Every drink a possible deal—or death sentence.

She slipped into the currents of laughter and greed, navigating bodies that glittered and postured. They didn’t know her name. Not yet. But they would.

She drifted to the edge of the main floor, where a string quartet played something slow and dangerous.

And that’s when she felt it.

A gaze.

Heavy. Direct. Unyielding.

She turned her head—and met his eyes across the room.

Damien Voss.

Even behind his matte black mask, she would’ve known him. His height. The cut of his jaw. The way he stood like he owned every inch of the air around him.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

Just watched her.

Aria tilted her chin. A challenge.

He began to walk toward her, slow and steady, like a storm choosing where to fall.

When he reached her, the room quieted—not literally, but the world around her dimmed until it was only them.

“Not often someone turns every head without saying a word,” he said, voice low and dark as velvet.

She turned her face slightly, letting her eyes meet his without hesitation.

“I find silence… efficient.”

His lips quirked at the edges. “Dangerous women always do.”

She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

He offered his hand. She gave him hers, gloved in silk. His touch was firm, but not forceful.

There was something in the way he looked at her.

Curious. Cautious.

And almost—almost—familiarity.

Not recognition. Not yet.

But something stirring.

He was searching her face for a memory that wouldn’t surface.

She let him.

Let him wonder.

Because she knew the second he remembered… everything would change.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said at last.

“No,” she replied. “We haven’t.”

A beat.

“What brings you to Ebonhall, Miss D’Arien?”

She smiled under the mask. “A legacy.”

“Ah.” He raised his glass. “You’ll fit right in, then. We all came for something buried in blood.”

He tapped his drink gently to hers before stepping back.

“I hope your legacy is worth the price.”

She watched him walk away, tall and untouchable.

And whispered to herself, “It will be.”

Tonight was the first move.

Tomorrow, the war began.

And Aria Vale wasn’t coming to reclaim her place.

She was coming to burn theirs to the ground.

Aria moved from the center of the ballroom to a quieter corner, where shadows pooled between velvet drapes and the scent of roses barely masked something sharper underneath—burnt clove, expensive tobacco, secrets.

She didn’t need to stay in the spotlight. Not yet.

Influence wasn’t built on being seen—it was built on being remembered. She’d given them just enough of a mystery to gnaw on. A name that would echo between wine glasses and whispered threats.

Her gloved fingers grazed the edge of a silver tray as a server passed, and she plucked a flute of champagne, letting the bubbles rise untouched to the rim. She wouldn’t drink tonight. Not until she knew the faces of every enemy in the room.

Across from her, masked couples twirled through the marble like marionettes. The string quartet swelled again, now playing something more frantic beneath its beauty. That was the world she had returned to—flawless, glittering, and just moments from cracking.

She turned as a familiar voice murmured behind her.

“You’re not from House Thorne.”

The voice was low, female, and unimpressed. Aria didn’t startle. Instead, she pivoted with quiet grace, finding herself face-to-face with a woman draped in crimson, her mask shaped like the wings of a hawk. Eyes sharp as razors.

“No,” Aria said softly. “But they’re the sort who enjoy looking generous.”

The woman’s lips curved. “Dangerous game, little wolf.”

Aria smiled. “Only if I lose.”

There was a beat. Then the woman gave a small, grudging nod.

“Sable Crowne,” she offered, extending a hand.“House Crowne. Southern Region.”

Aria took it. “Valencia D’Arien.”

A lie, still. But it rolled from her tongue with practiced ease.

“You’ll want to be careful. Damien Voss doesn’t usually make first moves.”

“Neither do I,” Aria replied, voice cool. “Unless the board’s already rigged.”

Sable studied her for a moment longer, then gave a slight smirk and drifted off into the crowd—already losing interest, or pretending to. Either way, Aria knew she’d planted herself deeper into the rumor mill now. And that was the point.

The more people tried to figure out who she was, the less they’d see what she was doing.

She turned her eyes back to the center of the room. Damien had vanished—for now. But she knew better than to think he’d gone far.

That was the thing about predators.

They circled.

By the time the midnight bell rang across Ebonhall, the masks had started to slip—not physically, but in the way people laughed too loud, leaned too close, whispered just a little too boldly.

Aria was watching it all. Mapping relationships. Tracking feuds. Listening for cracks.

She caught names like currency.

Everett Thorne – soft smile, poisoned touch. Already in quiet talks with the Eastern houses.

Cassian Vale – no relation, but dangerous enough to be a complication.

Marielle Dusk – power-hungry, legacy-born, and watching Damien like he belonged to her.

Useful. All of it.

Aria moved to a private terrace, the door clicking softly behind her. Outside, the night was colder, and the ocean wind whipped at her gown. Below, the cliffs plunged into black waves.

She exhaled, steady.

Her fingers slid into her clutch and touched the folded photograph inside.

A man in a dark coat. Her father.

Dead by the Order’s decree.

Signed by Damien Voss.

Aria folded the picture again.

She didn’t cry. Not anymore.

Instead, she whispered to the wind, “I will not bury him with silence.”

Behind her, the door clicked open again.

Her hand was on her blade before she turned.

But it was Damien.

Of course.

He stepped onto the terrace with a lazy kind of grace, unbothered by the cold.

“You slipped away,” he said.

“And you followed.”

He smiled slightly. “Only to confirm my suspicion.”

Aria tilted her head. “And what is that?”

He studied her then—longer this time. Like a man trying to catch the end of a dream just out of reach.

“That you’re not who you say you are.”

The words hung between them like smoke.

Aria didn’t deny it.

She stepped closer instead.

So close she could see the fine cut of his jaw beneath the mask, the faint scar at the corner of his mouth.

“Be careful, Lord Voss,” she whispered. “You may not like the truth when it arrives.”

“No,” he murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in his voice.

“But I’ve learned to admire beautiful lies.”

They stood in silence for a moment—predator and predator, each unsure who held the sharper teeth.

And somewhere, deep in the belly of the estate, a clock struck once.

Time was shifting.

And the empire didn’t know it yet—

But tonight, the bloodline war had begun.