The chandeliers shimmered like captured constellations, their golden light spilling across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. Music floated through the air, elegant strings blending with the hum of conversation and clinking champagne flutes. Guests moved in a swirl of silks and tuxedos, their faces hidden behind masks that only heightened the allure of secrecy.
Clara Bennett adjusted the strap of her dress nervously, her fingers brushing against the cool silver of her mask. It felt ridiculous on her face, like a disguise she didn't deserve. Her navy gown, borrowed from her mother's closet, fit well enough, but it didn't have the effortless sheen of wealth that the other women wore so easily.
She told herself she was here for her career. As a struggling architect, she couldn't afford to waste an opportunity like this. Emily had insisted that her father's masquerade gala was the perfect place to make connections—politicians, CEOs, hospital directors, people with more money than Clara could imagine. If she was lucky, she might walk away with a project.
But deep down, Clara knew the real reason her palms were clammy and her heart kept skipping.
Because he was here.
Dr. Dominic Sterling.
She spotted him almost immediately, standing near the grand staircase with a small circle of admirers. He didn't need jewels or a flamboyant mask like the others; his presence was enough. Tall, broad-shouldered, his tuxedo tailored to perfection, his black mask understated. Silver streaked his dark hair, and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes only added to his authority.
Her chest tightened. Seven years. It had been seven years since she last saw him up close, and he still had the power to unravel her with a glance.
Her best friend's father.
A widower.
A man she had never been allowed to want.
---
"Clara!"
She startled as Emily Sterling appeared at her side, radiant in a deep emerald dress, her auburn hair pinned up in an elegant twist. Emily slipped her arm through hers, giving her a warm squeeze. "You came! I knew you wouldn't chicken out."
Clara forced a smile. "I nearly did."
"Don't you dare. Tonight could change everything for you." Emily's eyes sparkled as she gestured toward the crowd. "All the right people are here. I'll introduce you to a few clients who might need new projects."
Clara's gaze flickered back to the man across the room. Dominic was listening politely to a woman in crimson satin, though his posture radiated quiet detachment. He wasn't smiling. He never did, not fully.
Her heart ached, because she knew why. Olivia Sterling, his wife, had died when Emily was five. He'd never remarried. People whispered about it all the time—how the great Dr. Sterling, one of the most eligible men in the country, had locked his heart away.
Except tonight, Clara couldn't stop hers from racing.
---
She tried, she really did. For the next two hours, Clara approached potential clients, portfolio clutched tightly. She stumbled over her words, tripped over her nerves, and left each conversation with nothing more than polite rejections. By the time the orchestra struck a slower tune, her feet ached and her confidence was in tatters.
She wanted to leave. She wanted to crawl home and forget she'd ever stepped into this gilded palace.
But fate had other plans.
As she descended the staircase toward the exit, her heel caught on the edge of the marble step. She gasped, lurching forward.
And a hand caught her wrist. Strong. Firm. Steady.
"Careful."
The voice was low, rich, threaded with authority.
Clara's heart stopped.
She lifted her head—and froze.
Dominic Sterling.
---
Up close, he was devastating. His steel-gray eyes, sharp even behind the mask, searched her face. For a heartbeat too long, he didn't let go.
"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice a rumble that seemed to settle in her bones.
Clara swallowed hard. "Yes. I—I'm fine. Thank you."
Her voice sounded breathless, traitorous. Her skin burned where his hand still brushed against hers. She should pull back. She should disappear before he noticed anything familiar about her.
But he didn't. He didn't recognize her.
Instead, his gaze lingered, thoughtful, as though something about her intrigued him.
"Perhaps I should get you a drink," he said finally. "You look like you've had a long night."
Her lips parted, caught between refusal and surrender. This was wrong. So wrong. But standing in the shadow of his presence, his scent—clean, crisp, with a trace of cedar—wrapping around her, Clara felt her years of discipline unravel.
"Maybe just one," she whispered.
His mouth curved, almost a smile.
And Clara knew—tonight, she was crossing a line she could never uncross.