The house loomed ahead like a dark mirage, sprawling and pristine. Celeste's breath fogged in the cool night air as she stood outside the iron gates, debating if this was a mistake. She hadn't been back to Beverly Hills since that day at J Lo's mansion, but this house—an eerie, modernist structure of glass and steel—wasn't hers.
Still, the memories clawed at her chest as she pressed the buzzer. The metallic voice that answered wasn't human.
"Name?"
"Celeste Noir," she said, the words sticking in her throat.
There was a pause, then the gates creaked open.
The driveway seemed endless, lined with manicured hedges that looked too perfect to be real. Her heels clicked against the stone as she walked toward the entrance. The house glowed from within, warm light spilling out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. It felt inviting and foreboding all at once.
She reached the front door—a massive slab of black wood with no visible handle—and it swung open before she could knock.
"Miss Noir."
A woman stood in the entryway. Tall, statuesque, with skin like polished onyx and eyes so sharp they felt like a challenge. Her lips curved into a smile, but there was no warmth in it.
"You're punctual. That's good," the woman said, stepping aside to let her in.
Celeste hesitated. "And you are?"
"Call me Lavinia," the woman said. "I'll be your guide tonight."
Inside, the house was a maze of sleek, minimalist design: white walls, black marble floors, and soft amber lighting that cast strange shadows. A faint, intoxicating scent hung in the air—something like jasmine, but heavier, more decadent.
"This way," Lavinia said, leading her through a corridor lined with abstract art.
Celeste's pulse quickened as they entered a sprawling living room where dozens of people mingled, their laughter and conversation a low, hypnotic hum. Everyone was dressed in black, their faces obscured by delicate, feathered masks. It felt like a masquerade ball from another world.
She scanned the room, searching for the man who had visited her dressing room. But he was nowhere to be seen.
"Drink?"
Celeste turned to see a man holding out a glass of something deep red and sparkling. His presence was magnetic: golden skin, a shock of white hair, and eyes that gleamed like molten silver. He wasn't wearing a mask, and his smile was disarming.
"I'm good," she said, though her throat was dry.
He tilted his head, studying her. "You'll need your strength for what's to come."
"Who are you?" she asked, uneasy under his gaze.
"Tonight, I'm just Ezra," he said, leaning in slightly. "But you'll remember me."
Before she could respond, Lavinia appeared at her side. "Ezra, don't scare the guests."
Ezra chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Scare? Never. She's intriguing. You chose well."
Lavinia's sharp gaze flicked to Celeste. "Ignore him. He lives to stir the pot."
Celeste glanced between them, a strange tension crackling in the air. Lavinia tugged her away, leading her deeper into the house, but Celeste couldn't shake the feeling of Ezra's eyes following her.
The farther they walked, the quieter the house became. The laughter and music faded until only the sound of her footsteps remained.
"Where are we going?" Celeste asked.
"To meet your benefactors," Lavinia said, her tone clipped.
They stopped in front of a door that looked no different from the others. Lavinia knocked once, then opened it.
The room beyond was smaller, more intimate—a private study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a roaring fireplace. Two people stood by the fire, their backs to her.
One was a woman with auburn hair cascading down her back in waves, her dress shimmering like molten gold. The other was a man, his figure tall and angular, with an air of quiet authority.
"Miss Noir," the man said without turning. His voice was familiar, smooth as silk.
Her heart lurched. It was him—the man from her dressing room.
"I see you've made it," he said, finally turning to face her. His sharp suit was gone, replaced by a flowing black coat that made him look almost regal.
"What is this?" Celeste demanded, her voice trembling.
"A moment of clarity," he said. "A choice."
The auburn-haired woman turned, her green eyes glinting like emeralds. "And an opportunity," she added. Her voice was rich, musical, but there was something predatory in her smile.
Celeste stepped back, her instincts screaming at her to leave. But the door shut behind her, and Lavinia stood in front of it, arms crossed.
"You wanted to be here," the man said. "You came because you're tired of waiting, tired of scraping by while the world refuses to see you. We can change that."
"How?" Celeste asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The man smiled, and the firelight cast strange shadows across his face. "By letting go of what holds you back. Fear. Doubt. Inexperience. Your body, your voice, your essence—these are tools, Miss Noir. You've barely scratched their potential."
The woman stepped closer, her gaze locking onto Celeste's. "We've seen what you can become. But you have to be willing to pay the price."
Celeste's mouth went dry. "What price?"
Neither of them answered. Instead, Lavinia opened the door, and the man gestured for her to follow.
"Midnight is just the beginning," he said.
The hallway beyond was darker now, the shadows stretching longer. Celeste hesitated, glancing back at the room, but the door slammed shut, and she was left alone with Lavinia.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To your future," Lavinia said, her voice eerily calm.
Celeste swallowed hard and followed, her pulse racing as the house seemed to shift around her. The laughter was gone, the air thick with tension. She felt like a fly caught in a spider's web.
And then she heard it. A low hum, like the resonance of a choir just out of reach. It grew louder as they walked, until Lavinia stopped in front of another door.
"Are you ready?" Lavinia asked.
Celeste's hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
When she stepped inside, her breath caught.
The room was massive, a cathedral-like space lit only by hundreds of flickering candles. Figures in black robes stood in a circle, their faces obscured. At the center was a pedestal, and on it lay something that shimmered faintly in the dim light—a contract, written in red ink.
And standing beside it, waiting for her, was the man from her dressing room.
"Welcome, Celeste," he said, his voice echoing. "Your destiny awaits."