The sound of clinking glasses mixed with the soft hum of laughter as the guests mingled, their conversations blending into the symphony of violins playing in the background. The air in the grand hall felt electric with the buzz of whispered secrets and hidden intentions. Everywhere one looked, there were people cloaked in extravagance—stunning gowns and finely tailored suits adorned with feathers, jewels, and lace. Facemasks, ornate and elaborate, covered their eyes, masking their identities so thoroughly that even close friends might not recognize one another. The dim lighting cast long shadows, adding to the air of mystery that hung thickly over the evening, like something thrilling was just waiting to happen.
Outside, Ambrose stepped out of his sleek car, his face unreadable as his gaze lazily drifted up to the towering building before him. He cared little for the grandeur of it all, feeling no excitement for what awaited him inside. His mind still clung to the remnants of that morning, the lingering touch of the woman from his dream—the one who had bewitched his senses and now occupied his every thought. He seemed almost distracted, detached from the here and now, as if wishing to fall back into the blissful slumber where he had left something tantalizingly unfinished.
With a sigh, Ambrose reached for the mask that had been sent over to him by the Cruz family. It was elaborate, befitting of the event, but he only saw it as another formality—another layer to the illusion of importance. Placing it over his face, he felt no thrill at the anonymity it granted him.
As Ambrose stepped through the grand entrance, the guards exchanged subtle glances, their expressions taut with purpose. One of them discreetly tugged at his collar and muttered into his microphone, "Target is entering." He straightened immediately, falling back into place, his eyes following Ambrose's every step, though maintaining an air of calm professionalism as more guests floated through the doors behind him.
Ambrose walked down the plush red carpet that led to the heart of the masquerade party, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, exuding a nonchalant air that masked the sharpness of his mind. The sound of soft murmurs and hushed excitement filled the air, yet his thoughts remained distant, detached from the lively chatter that surrounded him.
As he continued down the hallway, two men appeared in his path, both unmasked and smiling with unmistakable recognition. It was CEO Max Cruz and Chairman Carl Cruz, their gazes locked onto him as they approached. Carl, a man with an air of authority and an eager gleam in his eye, was the first to speak.
"Welcome, Mr. Marshal! We've been waiting for you," Carl's voice rang with warmth, though the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead hinted at something more—a nervousness perhaps, or simply the pressure of hosting such a grand affair.
A cool, calculated smile curved on Ambrose's lips as he realized their tactic. Despite the masquerade theme, they had recognized him instantly. The personalized mask they'd sent was a subtle way of ensuring they could identify him among the crowd. Clever, he mused silently, though the gesture did little to impress him. He knew they were trying to outdo themselves, eager to earn his favor, but the desperation behind their smiles was thinly veiled.
Still, Ambrose wasn't one to show his cards too early. He extended his hand toward Carl, keeping his expression polite, almost charming. "Glad to meet you here, Mr. Carl," he said smoothly, his grip firm but brief. His attention barely flickered toward Max, who was not of much importance in his eyes. He offered Max a curt nod, just enough to acknowledge his presence before turning his full focus back to Carl, the one who mattered in this game of power.
"Shall we enter, then?" Carl asked, gesturing toward the grand doors of the masquerade ball. Ambrose hesitated for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing behind the sleek black mask. "Aren't you going to wear yours?" he questioned.
Carl laughed, waving off the suggestion with a dismissive hand. "Ah, this mask was a request from my granddaughter. Old folks like us can't be bothered with such things. It's for the younger crowd to enjoy." His chuckle sounded lighthearted, but Ambrose could sense the underlying intentions behind every word.
'Mentioning your granddaughter at the first opportunity—how transparent,' Ambrose mused silently, reading Carl as if he were an open book. The smile on his face widened ever so slightly, playing along with the charade. "She seems to have a unique taste," he remarked, feeding Carl exactly what he wanted to hear.
Carl's eyes gleamed with pride. "Well, we can't deny that. She's a gem, after all," he replied, stepping forward into the party alongside Ambrose. Max, who had been standing nearby, was noticeably ignored by Carl. His face twisted with disdain as his knuckles clenched at his sides, resentment simmering as he watched the two men enter without acknowledging his presence.
Just as Ambrose was about to cross the threshold into the party, his phone buzzed in his pocket, halting him mid-step. He glanced down, half expecting it to be a business call, but instead, Fleur's name flashed across the screen.
"What's she calling me for?" he muttered under his breath, perplexed. Carl noticed him lagging behind and turned back. "Is something the matter, Mr. Marshal?"
Ambrose waved him off coolly. "Just an important call. I'll attend to it first." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, crossing paths with Max once again, this time acting as though the man was invisible. He stepped out of the hallway, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" Ambrose said cautiously.
"BROTHER!" Fleur's shrill voice shot through the line, causing him to pull the phone away from his ear with a grimace. His brow furrowed in irritation.
"What's happened now?" he asked, already weary of the drama she always brought into his life.
"You're absolutely disgusting, do you know that?! I don't even have words for how despicable you are!" she yelled, her voice brimming with frustration.
Utterly baffled, Ambrose rubbed his temple. "What did I do?"
"How could you even think of getting married without telling me first?!" Fleur's tone was laced with betrayal.
Ambrose sighed, realizing what had sparked this fury. "Tsk! You found out already?" he muttered, annoyed that his plan to keep her in the dark hadn't lasted longer.
"Of course, I found out!" she snapped. "Were you planning on hiding it from me forever? I can't believe you would do this to me!"
"I didn't tell you because it's not final yet," he explained, trying to calm her down. "I was going to talk to you about it tonight."
"Yeah, sure you were," she grumbled bitterly. "I don't want to speak to you ever again! I'm blocking you!" And with that, the call abruptly ended.
Ambrose stared at the phone in his hand, bewildered by the sudden outburst. "She hung up on me?" he muttered incredulously. Shaking his head, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. "What's the big deal? I'm just getting married. Why are they acting like it's such a catastrophe?"
As he turned to re-enter the party, something caught his eye. A figure moved elegantly toward the entrance, drawing his gaze like a magnet.
Click. Click. Click.
Her heels tapped out a rhythmic beat against the polished floor. The masquerade mask she wore shielded her identity, but not her allure. Only her lips—painted a bold red—were visible beneath the mask, along with the graceful line of her jaw. Her tall neck led down to an exquisite black dress that clung to every curve of her hourglass figure. The dress dipped dangerously low in the back, beads draping across her bare skin in a tantalizing display. A serpentine strap from her heels wrapped seductively around her calf, coiling like a silent promise.
Ambrose's gaze grew narrow and curious and followed her, unwavering, and she must have felt the weight of it because she suddenly stopped. Slowly, she turned to face him, her eyes locking with his.
But her gaze was cool, unfazed. There was no flicker of recognition, no curiosity—only indifference. The disinterest in her eyes was almost palpable, a silent dismissal that stung like ice water.
Without a second thought, her hand slipped into the small clutch she held, retrieving her phone. "Hello?" she answered, her voice calm and collected as she turned away from Ambrose, resuming her confident stride as if his presence was nothing more than a passing shadow. She continued walking, unbothered, her heels echoing in the corridor with rhythmic precision.
Ambrose stood there, momentarily stunned. No one—absolutely no one—had ever reacted to him like that.