The chandelier above the Grand Palais glittered like a frozen constellation, each crystal catching light and scattering it across the marble hall. Tonight's gala was the talk of the city — a masquerade hosted by one of the city's oldest philanthropic families. The theme was Rebirth through Art, a poetic veil over a night of indulgence, gossip, and networking.
It was also the stage Sharon Countbell had chosen for the next act of her vengeance.
***
She arrived late, as always. Every head turned when she stepped through the carved double doors, her gown a river of midnight silk that shimmered with subtle silver embroidery. A black lace mask framed her eyes, enhancing the sharpness of her beauty without concealing her identity.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Cameras flashed. Sharon Countbell had mastered the art of entrance, and tonight was no exception.
But tonight, the mask was not just an accessory. It was a promise.
She felt Arga's presence before she saw him. His gaze clung to her across the room — desperate, hungry, frantic.
Perfect.
***
Arga Bridgman wore a tailored suit of deep navy, his mask simple, almost austere, as if he hadn't given the event much thought. But his eyes betrayed him.
They followed her relentlessly, flicking away only when someone spoke to him, only to return seconds later.
He looked older than he had a month ago — the sleepless nights etched into the shadows beneath his eyes, the faint shake in his hand when he reached for a drink.
The empire he inherited could crumble around him, and still he would be here, staring at her, helpless.
***
Sharon didn't approach him immediately. That would have been too easy.
Instead, she circled the room gracefully, exchanging greetings, leaving laughter in her wake. She danced once with a well-known sculptor, once with a politician whose wife smiled tightly from the edge of the floor. Each movement, each smile, was calculated.
And every time she passed near Arga, she let her perfume drift toward him, let her eyes brush against his — never long enough to grant him relief, never short enough to free him.
By the third circuit, Arga looked like a man unraveling thread by thread.
Finally, when she knew he was near breaking, she allowed herself to approach.
***
"Mr. Bridgman," Sharon said, her voice a velvet blade as she stopped before him.
Arga straightened instantly, as if she had called him to attention. "Sharon," he said hoarsely, bowing his head slightly.
"Enjoying the evening?" she asked, tilting her head.
He swallowed hard. "It… it would be better if I knew where I stood with you."
Her smile was faint, mocking. "You stand where I allow you, Arga."
The words struck him visibly. But he didn't argue. He couldn't.
"May I…" He hesitated, then extended his hand. "May I have this dance?"
For a moment, Sharon pretended to consider. Then, slowly, she placed her hand in his.
***
The orchestra began a slow waltz. Arga guided her onto the floor, his hand trembling slightly at her waist. She moved with practiced elegance, her gown flowing like liquid shadow.
For him, the moment was intoxicating. To hold her, to breathe her in, even if only for minutes — it was a drug he couldn't resist.
But Sharon's mind was sharp, cold. Every step she took was designed to remind him of who controlled the rhythm. She leaned in close enough for him to feel the warmth of her skin, then pulled back just enough to deny him.
"You're shaking," she whispered near his ear.
His grip tightened. "Because I've never wanted something more in my life."
She chuckled softly. "Or because you're afraid?"
Both were true, and he couldn't deny either.
***
As the song ended, Sharon let her hand linger in his for a moment longer than necessary. Then she slipped free, gliding back into the crowd.
Arga followed like a shadow, always a few steps behind. She allowed it. She wanted him to trail her, to feel like prey chasing its predator.
Every so often, she stopped to speak with someone — a business magnate, a gallery curator, a rival investor. Each time, she let Arga catch sight of her laughing, smiling, touching an arm lightly.
Jealousy burned in his eyes, a green fire that consumed what little composure he had left.
At last, he cornered her near the balcony, his voice breaking. "What do you want from me, Sharon?"
Her gaze was cool. "Everything. And nothing."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get tonight."
Then she slipped away again, leaving him shaking with frustration.
***
Later, Sharon stepped onto the balcony alone, the city glittering below. She sipped champagne, the glass cool against her fingers. She knew Arga would follow.
And he did.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he demanded, his voice raw.
She turned slowly, her mask catching the light. "Doing what?"
"Breaking me. Pulling me apart."
She stepped closer, so close he could feel her breath. "I haven't even begun."
For a moment, he looked as if he might kiss her — or collapse. But she pulled back at the last second, her smile cruel.
"Patience, Arga. The night is still young."
Then she walked back inside, leaving him gasping for air.
***
By midnight, Arga looked like a man haunted. His mask slipped crooked, his glass refilled too often. Every whisper in the room felt like mockery. Every laugh felt directed at him.
Sharon remained radiant, untouchable, gliding through the gala like a swan across water. She knew the eyes of the room were on her. She knew they noticed his obsession, his unraveling. That was the point.
This wasn't the detonation. Not yet. This was the fuse being lit, slowly, deliberately, with everyone watching.
Tomorrow, whispers would spread. *Why did Bridgman look so unhinged? Why was Countbell toying with him so openly?*
The stage was tilting, and Arga didn't even realize how far he was about to fall.
***
At last, Sharon left the gala. She didn't say goodbye to Arga. She didn't need to.
Her car door closed, the driver pulled away, and she watched the Grand Palais shrink in the distance.
Her reflection in the window smiled back at her.
Tonight had been perfect. She had shown him the illusion of closeness, then yanked it away under the eyes of the world.
Next time, she would tear away the mask completely.
***
Epilogue – The Mask Cracks
Inside the Palais, long after Sharon's departure, Arga stood alone in the ballroom, the music still echoing faintly. His mask hung in his hand, forgotten, his knuckles white around its edges.
He stared at the empty doorway where she had left, his chest heaving.
The mask slipped from his hand and shattered against the marble floor.
A fitting symbol — for the façade he could no longer maintain.
Arga Bridgman was unraveling, and soon, the world would see it.