The greenhouse behind the old opera house was nothing like Juliette expected. It wasn't overgrown or wild—it was curated. Every vine, every orchid, every thorn seemed placed with intention. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something darker—like secrets left to rot.
Juliette stepped through the wrought-iron gate, her mask a delicate lace that veiled her eyes but not her intent. Damien walked beside her, his mask matte black, expression unreadable.
Inside, the Garden was alive.
Men and women in masks whispered in corners, exchanged glances that spoke louder than words. There were no names here. Only roles. Only games.
A woman in crimson silk approached Juliette, her voice like honey. "You're the new bloom."
Juliette smiled. "I don't wilt easily."
---
Damien led her through the crowd, past a wall of mirrors and into a corridor lined with ivy. At the end was a door—unmarked, discreet.
He opened it.
Inside: a private powder room, dimly lit, marble and gold. The silence was thick.
Juliette turned to him. "Why here?"
Damien stepped closer, his voice low. "Because out there, you're being watched. In here, I need you to remember who you are."
He pressed her gently against the wall, his hands at her waist, his breath warm against her neck. The tension between them was electric—charged by danger, by desire, by everything they couldn't say aloud.
Juliette's fingers curled into his jacket. "You think I'll lose myself?"
"I think you already have," he whispered.
---
Their lips met—fierce, hungry, not for comfort but for control. Damien's hands explored her body with urgency, not just to claim her, but to anchor her. Juliette responded in kind, her body alive with sensation, her mind racing with strategy.
But even in that moment, she was calculating.
Because in the Garden, pleasure was never just pleasure.
It was leverage.
It was proof.
It was a test.
---
They emerged minutes later, masks adjusted, expressions composed. No one asked where they'd gone. But Juliette knew someone had noticed.
And that was the point.
The crimson-silk woman returned, handing Juliette a glass of something amber and potent. "The first bloom always bleeds. Are you ready?"
Juliette took the glass, her voice steady. "Let's see who cuts deeper."
Juliette sipped the amber liquid slowly. It burned, but not like alcohol. It was something else—something designed to loosen the tongue and blur the line between truth and performance.
The woman in crimson leaned in. "You'll be asked three things tonight: to reveal, to touch, and to choose."
Juliette tilted her head. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you'll be remembered as a shadow. And shadows don't survive long in the Garden."
---
The greenhouse pulsed with low music—no lyrics, just rhythm. Bodies moved like smoke, masks glinting under soft lights. Juliette walked through the crowd, Damien trailing her like a shadow stitched to her spine.
A masked man approached, his suit charcoal grey, his voice velvet. "Reveal."
Juliette smiled. "What do you want to know?"
He held out a card. On it: What was your first betrayal?
Juliette's fingers tightened around her glass. She thought of Elise. Of the moment she chose silence over loyalty.
She handed the card back. "I betrayed someone who loved me. Because I wanted to know what power felt like."
The man nodded once. "You may pass."
---
Next: Touch.
A woman with a serpent tattoo coiled around her shoulder stepped forward. She held out her hand, palm up.
Juliette placed her fingers on the woman's wrist. The woman's breath hitched. "Now you," she whispered.
Juliette extended her arm. The woman's touch was deliberate—tracing the inside of her elbow, then up to her collarbone. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about control.
Juliette didn't flinch.
"You may pass," the woman said.
---
Finally: Choose.
A curtain parted, revealing two doors. One marked with a rose. The other with a blade.
Damien stepped beside her. "This is where it begins."
Juliette looked at both doors. "What's behind them?"
"Power," he said. "But one gives it. The other takes it."
Juliette stepped toward the blade.
Damien's hand caught her wrist. "You'll be tested."
She looked at him, eyes steady. "I'm not here to be safe."
---
Inside the blade-marked room, the air was colder. Fewer people. Fewer masks. A circle of chairs, and in the center—an empty throne.
A voice echoed from the shadows. "She chose the blade. Let her bleed."
Juliette stepped into the circle.
The crimson-silk woman appeared again, holding a silver box. Inside: a single thorn.
"Prick your finger," she said. "Let the Garden taste you."
Juliette took the thorn, pressed it to her skin. A drop of blood bloomed.
The room exhaled.
The throne was no longer empty.
Juliette sat.
Juliette sat tall on the throne, her finger still tingling from the thorn's bite. Around her, masked figures circled slowly, like predators unsure whether to pounce or bow. The crimson-silk woman stood beside her, holding a velvet pouch.
"Your blood has marked you," she said. "Now choose your first command."
Juliette's voice was calm, but her pulse raced. "I want silence."
The music stopped. Conversations died. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Juliette stood, her gaze sweeping the room. "I want to see who breaks first when there's nothing left to hide behind."
One by one, the masked guests removed their masks.
Some faces were familiar—politicians, moguls, artists whose names lit up headlines. Others were strangers, but their eyes told stories: hunger, guilt, desire.
Damien remained masked.
Juliette walked toward him, slow and deliberate. "Not even you?"
He removed it.
His face was unreadable, but his eyes burned. "You're changing."
She touched his cheek. "I'm becoming."
---
Later, in a secluded alcove draped in velvet and shadow, Juliette and Damien sat alone. The Garden had resumed its rhythm, but they were outside it now—two conspirators in a world built on temptation.
Damien poured her another drink, but she didn't take it.
"You're not afraid anymore," he said.
Juliette leaned in, her voice low. "I'm still afraid. I've just learned how to use it."
He reached for her hand, tracing the spot where the thorn had pierced her. "They'll come for you now. Not just to test you. To own you."
Juliette's smile was razor-sharp. "Let them try."
---
A bell rang in the distance—soft, ceremonial.
The crimson-silk woman returned, her expression unreadable. "The Garden has accepted you. But it will never love you."
Juliette stood, her gown shimmering like midnight. "I'm not here to be loved. I'm here to be remembered."