The shrill shriek of the alarm ripped Pamela from her slumber. A jolt of pain shot through her head, causing her to groan. Blearily wiping her face and letting out a yawn, she scanned the room, momentarily confused. Her eyes landed on the clock. It was already fourteen minutes to eight!
"What the...?" she muttered, scrambling out of bed. A panicked glance at her alarm confirmed her worst fears. "Oh, Goddamnit." she cursed under her breath. She'd set it for 7:45 instead of thirty minutes earlier.
Chaos erupted. She raced to the bathroom, brushing her teeth with frantic swipes. Clothes were flung off in a hurry before she covered her hair and hopped under the shower. It was a quick, invigorating wash. Back in her room, she dug out the grey dress– the one Elizabeth had insisted on. She paired it with a delicate pink butterfly necklace, mirroring the black butterfly mask tucked under her arm.
Standing before the mirror, she took a moment to inspect herself. The dress, though elegant, clung a little too tightly, emphasising her slender frame. Much to her displeasure.
Next, she slipped on her heels, the familiar click-clack a grounding sound amidst the evening mayhem. A final check at the clock – bang on eight. Perfect timing, almost.
The impatient blare of a car horn echoed from downstairs. That would be Elizabeth, no doubt, impatiently waiting for her. As if on cue, she could hear her name being shouted.
"I'm almost done." Pamela muttered, smoothing down her short black wig. Elizabeth's suggestion to wear a black wig to blend in with the bat theme of the party, still felt strange. It wasn't the worst idea, but who on earth came up with a theme like that anyway?
With a final satisfied glance in the mirror, she took care of her cat, leaving out a generous portion of food. Grabbing her purse and brand new phone, she saw a message from Mr Brown about his unexpected travel. Without waiting a second to reply, she rushed out of the apartment.
Downstairs, Pamela was met with a vision. Elizabeth looked stunning in her own black dress, its cut accentuating her perfect chubby curves. A pang of envy shot through Pamela. Now that, she thought, was how she'd like to look.
Elizabeth's eyes lit up at the sight of her. "I knew I picked a winner!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with admiration. "The dress looks heavenly on you."
Pamela couldn't deny it. The dress did suit her, even if it wasn't exactly her style.
"Where's your mask?" Elizabeth asked playfully. Pamela lifted it in response, a small smile playing on her lips, before securing it over her face.
They piled into the car, Elizabeth peeling away from the curb with a surprising burst of speed.
They sped along for what felt like ages, leaving the city lights twinkling behind them. After half an hour or more, the car finally came to a halt outside a grand mansion. It was enormous, bathed in warm light that made the old bricks seem to glow golden.
The place was buzzing. A long line of cars snaked its way up the driveway, all waiting to be cleared for entry. Security was tight, unlike anything Pamela had ever seen. There were searches for weapons and fake IDs, and it all felt very official.
After what seemed like forever, their car finally reached the front of the queue. Scans beeped and whirred as security checked the vehicle over, then Elizabeth's fingerprint and Pamela's were scanned too. Finally, with invitations confirmed, the gates swung open and they were allowed into the grounds.
The mansion itself was breathtaking, like something out of a royal history book. Its grand design spoke of a bygone era, a time of wealth and grandeur. Leaning closer as their car pulled to a stop, Pamela couldn't help but whisper, "Does his family actually live in a place like this?"
Elizabeth just winked. "We'll find out soon enough," she replied mysteriously.
Pamela unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out of the car, following Elizabeth. The place was already teeming with people, all masked and dressed up. Pulling out her phone to silence the constant pings and notifications, Pamela's heart sank a little as she saw the time. Nearly nine pm already. A shiver ran down her spine. "There's a curfew at eleven, remember?" she reminded Elizabeth in a hushed tone.
Elizabeth just scoffed. "Not here." With that, she tucked the car keys safely into her purse and led the way towards the grand entrance.
Stepping inside the mansion, Pamela realised just how seriously the whole bat theme had been taken. The place was dimly lit, almost like a giant gothic hall. It could have been mistaken for a funeral, except for the lively music and the sheer number of people milling about.
Two burly men with stern expressions stood guard at the entrance, their eyes scanning Pamela's dress for a moment before flicking to Elizabeth in front her. With a silent sigh of relief, Pamela followed Elizabeth further into the mansion, the soft strains of music from the brightly lit ballroom guiding their way.
Everyone wore masks, their faces hidden. Pamela recognised none of them, which wasn't surprising really – this wasn't her usual crowd. A waiter, dressed head-to-toe in grey, walked past them with a tray of sparkling wine. Elizabeth stopped him and grabbed two flutes, offering one to Pamela.
But Pamela wasn't thinking about drinks. It had just dawned on her with a jolt that her own dress looked suspiciously similar to the waitresses' uniforms.
"Hey, you alright?" Elizabeth asked, noticing Pamela's sudden zoned-out expression. Pamela snapped back to reality, noticing the outstretched arm and the glass of wine. Taking it from Elizabeth, she downed the entire drink in one quick gulp, the alcohol burning a welcome warmth down her throat.
She knew she wasn't good with drinks, especially not on an empty stomach. And now, to top it all off, she was stuck in the middle of the room dressed in a waitress uniform.
"Oh shit…" Elizabeth murmured as she realized this, her voice laced with worry. "I – I had no idea," she stammered, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped mouse searching for an escape hole. "There must be a spare dress somewhere in this giant house, for emergencies like this. Follow me."
Pamela trailed behind Elizabeth, her eyes scanning for an exit strategy. They approached a side door guarded by two burly security guards. Pamela could tell from Elizabeth's frantic searching that this wasn't part of the plan.
Just before they reached the guards, Elizabeth did something unexpected. She tipped the remaining wine in her glass, letting it dribble down the back of Pamela's dress, staining the pale grey fabric a dark red.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Elizabeth said, her voice laced with concern. "My friend here seems to have spilled wine all down her dress. Is there a spare one she could borrow for the evening?"
The guards exchanged a wary glance before focusing back on them. The taller one, with a perpetually grumpy expression, stepped forward and scanned Pamela with a handheld device. Seeing nothing suspicious, he grunted and gestured to the other guard.
A small door behind them clicked open, and Elizabeth gave Pamela a determined nod. Pamela's stomach lurched. This whole thing felt dodgy, and the sinking feeling in her gut wasn't helping. Taking a deep breath, she mumbled a thank you and slipped through the door.
The scene that greeted her was a stark contrast to the bustling ballroom. Here, chaos reigned. Women, some half-dressed, spilled out of overflowing changing rooms, clutching wads of expensive fabric. Some cried over barely-there stains on their designer dresses, while others barked orders at frantic waitresses who scurried around with armfuls of gowns.
These weren't your average partygoers, Pamela realised. The way they carried themselves, the way they fussed over the most minor imperfections, spoke of wealth and privilege. Heiresses, maybe, or even socialites from other countries. Yet, here they were, acting like children over a few rouge spots.
Waitresses, identical in their grey dresses, scurried around, fetching new dresses and offering comforting words. One such waitress held up a dress – a perfect identical to Elizabeth's, only smaller– after a particularly dramatic heiress rejected it. Before it could be hung back up, Pamela darted forward, snatching the dress before anyone else could react.
But her moment of triumph was short-lived. A large woman, radiating a powerful air despite her waitress uniform, grabbed Pamela's arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
"Excuse me, miss!" Pamela sputtered, but the woman wasn't interested in explanations as she dragged her through a door on the left. Her face was a mask of fury.
"Stealing a dress? That wasn't in your job description. Consider yourself lucky I caught you before anyone else did. Goodness knows the trouble you'd be in then!" Her voice dripped with disdain.
"Now," she continued before Pamela could explain, shoving the door shut behind them, "go hide that somewhere no one will see it, and get back to work. And you," she turned a menacing glare on Pamela, "are not allowed back in the changing room. Understand?"
The woman unlocked the door, leaving Pamela speechless. As she opened her mouth to protest, the door slammed shut again. Pamela stared at the solid wood, a knot of frustration tightening in her chest. This waitress attire had to go, and fast, before things got even worse.
Waiters carry a trolley of broken glasses and smudged snacks, some carry stained clothes to be washed were busy inside the room.
Realising it wasn't exactly discreet to change clothes right there, Pamela slipped through another door on the right. Hoping for a quiet corner, she found herself in a bustling corridor filled with servants. Some hurried past with trays of drinks and snacks, others carried piles of laundry – everyone seemed to have a purpose.
Discouraged, Pamela continued down the hallway, opening each door in turn. One led to a broom closet, another to a kitchen overflowing with crisp white dresses chefs. Finally, on the ninth attempt, she stumbled upon a dusty staircase. Relief washed over her– a secluded spot to change.
Taking the stairs two at a time, she hurried upwards, her heart pounding in her chest. Reaching the top floor, she found a corridor lined with closed doors. Assuming they were all occupied rooms, she scurried to a dark corner.
Just as she reached the corner, a door nearby creaked open. Out stepped a tall man clad in a black suit, half a mask obscuring his face. His voice was deep and gravelly, sending shivers down Pamela's spine.
"Take this over to Benedict," he commanded, leaning a leathered file to her.
Maybe he thinks she's a maid, Pamela thought quickly. Running wouldn't help, so she approached him cautiously.
"Returning a dress?" the man repeated, his eyes narrowing at the gown she clutched.
"Yes," she squeaked, hoping her voice didn't betray her nervousness.
Her simple confirmation seemed to surprise the man. He tilted his head, studying her intently.
"New here?" he asked.
"Yes," she confirmed, "-sir," quickly adding the respectful title for good measure.
He simply nodded, not offering any further comment. Taking his silence as a dismissal, Pamela started to descend the stairs.
"Wrong way to Benedict," the man suddenly boomed from behind her. His voice held an unsettling edge, and Pamela could practically feel his gaze burning through her mask.
"Oh, I-I must've had a bit too much to drink," she stammered, forcing a nervous giggle. She retraced her steps back up the stairs and another flight of stairs, aware of his eyes following her every move.
Finally, escaping his line of sight, Pamela let out a shaky breath. Spotting a suitable corner, she swiftly shed the waitress uniform and swapped it for the other dress. Heart pounding, she continued climbing the stairs, reaching the top floor once more. This time, she knocked tentatively on the first door she saw.
No answer. She knocked again, deciding to try the next door if there was no response. As she lifted her hand, a low growl echoed from within, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door swung open, revealing a man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo. Unlike the other man, his mask covered his entire face– a black bat design that seemed to mock her with its theme. Even from a distance, she could see a shock of blonde hair peeking out from beneath the mask, almost appearing grey in the dim light. His eyes, however, were striking. A clear, piercing blue that seemed to pierce right through her.
"I'm supposed to deliver this to Benedict," Pamela announced quickly, holding out the file. But the man did nothing but stare at her, his gaze unwavering. It wasn't just his lack of response that unnerved her – it was the intensity of his stare, as if he was trying to see right through her disguise.
"I, uh, need to get back to the party," she stammered, feeling increasingly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. His prolonged silence spoke volumes, and a cold dread began to creep into her stomach. Suddenly, it dawned on her – Benedict wasn't a just name.
Ignoring her plea, the man finally reached out and snatched the file from her grasp. His eyes flickered down to her necklace for a fleeting moment before he slammed the door shut in her face, leaving Pamela speechless and alone in the hallway.