Drew stayed there long after she left, the music in the lounge starting up again beyond the curtains. He didn't move. He just stood there, pulse unsteady, trying to make sense of what had just happened — or why it felt like he'd just lost something he hadn't even found yet.
When he finally returned to his booth, Jax was waiting, grinning like a man who'd seen enough to tease him for months.
"You look like you saw a ghost," Jax said, raising his glass. "Or fell in love."
Drew ignored him, sitting down, loosening his collar. "Neither."
Jax leaned in, amused. "Then why are your hands shaking?"
Drew didn't answer. He looked down instead, noticing a small silver feather lying on the seat beside him — a piece from the dancer's mask, glinting faintly in the low light.
He turned it over in his palm, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to it.
And for the first time in years, Drew Lancaster didn't feel in control.
He felt haunted.
The city was barely awake when Drew Lancaster opened his eyes.
Light crept through the half-drawn curtains of his penthouse, painting faint stripes across the floor. His head throbbed — not from alcohol, but from the strange weight of memory.
He sat up slowly.
The glass of water on the nightstand was untouched.
His jacket hung carelessly over the chair — something he never did. And on the marble floor, half-hidden beneath his shoe, was a single silver feather.
He stared at it for a long time.
He could almost smell her again — that soft trace of roses and smoke.
It had been one night. A few words. Barely an hour.
And yet, she lingered.
He showered, dressed, and tried to lose himself in his routine — black suit, cufflinks, espresso. But nothing felt right. His mind kept circling back to the masked dancer, the way she'd looked at him like she already knew the version of him he hid from everyone else.
He told himself to forget.
He'd forgotten many things before.
But the memory stayed.
By nine a.m., Drew was back in his office, though his focus was fractured. The skyline stretched before him like armor — glass, power, silence. Usually, it steadied him. Today, it only reminded him of everything he couldn't control.
His assistant, Melina, knocked once before entering.
"You're in early," she said, setting a file on his desk. "Again."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Rough night?"
He gave her a look. "Something like that."
Melina smiled faintly — the kind of smile that said she wasn't going to ask, but she was absolutely curious. "You've got three meetings this morning, starting with—"
Her words cut off mid-sentence. She frowned at the folder she'd just placed on his desk. "That's… odd."
"What?"
"This isn't from me."
Drew glanced down. The folder wasn't one of theirs. It was black, slim, unmarked — sealed with a strip of silver ribbon.
He frowned, picking it up. "Who brought this?"
"No idea," Melina said. "It was on my desk when I came in. No delivery slip, no name."
He untied the ribbon, opening the folder.
Inside was a single photograph — a close-up shot of the Imperial Hotel ballroom, taken from an angle he didn't remember anyone standing at.
The focus wasn't on the crowd, though. It was on him.
Drew Lancaster, mid-conversation with the woman in the crimson mask.
The back of the photo had a faint imprint — a red mark shaped like lips. No note. No message. Just that.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to steady.
It was probably a game. Parties like that always attracted people who loved riddles. But still — the timing. The precision. The detail.
"Throw it out," he said finally.
"Are you sure?" Melina asked.
"Yes."
But after she left, he didn't throw it out. He slid the photo into the bottom drawer of his desk and shut it quietly.
By noon, the day had blurred into static — meetings, calls, signatures. But even then, something felt off. Every sound seemed sharper. Every silence heavier.
When he left the office for lunch, the elevator was empty except for a faint, familiar scent. Roses. Subtle, clean, unmistakable.
He froze.
The doors opened to the lobby, and there — near the entrance — a woman passed, wearing a pale coat, her hair pinned up in the same graceful twist. He caught only a glimpse, a silhouette. But his chest tightened anyway.
He followed.
"Excuse me," he called.
The woman turned — and it wasn't her. Different face, different eyes, same perfume.
"I'm sorry," Drew said quickly. "I thought you were someone else."
She smiled politely and kept walking.
He stood there a moment, hand in his pocket, feeling ridiculous. The doorman gave him a puzzled glance; Drew ignored it and headed toward the street.
He told himself it was nothing. Coincidence.
Still, when he got back to his car, that same faint scent clung to his sleeve.
The afternoon dragged. By evening, Drew gave up pretending to work. He left the office, loosening his tie as he walked through the cool wind toward the Imperial — the hotel he swore he wouldn't visit again.
He didn't know why he went. Curiosity, maybe. Or that strange pull he couldn't name.
The ballroom was closed, cleaned, unrecognizable. No music, no laughter, just silence and the echo of footsteps. He wandered through the lounge, half expecting someone to stop him. No one did.
Then he saw it — on the stage, near where she'd danced — a small, forgotten object glinting under the dim lights. He walked closer.
It was a mask. Silver, cracked slightly along the edge.
His breath caught. It looked identical to hers.
He picked it up carefully. It was light, cool, the faint trace of perfume still clinging to the ribbon.
And underneath it, on the stage floor, a single folded card.
He opened it.
No words — just a symbol: a red feather drawn in ink.
Drew turned the card over, but there was nothing else. No name, no date, no clue.
His phone buzzed suddenly, startling him. Jax.
He hesitated before answering.
"Man, where did you vanish to last night?" Jax's voice crackled through the speaker. "One minute you're at the table, next minute— poof. I thought maybe one of those masked angels kidnapped you."
Drew forced a dry laugh. "You'd like that story, wouldn't you?"
"I'd love it," Jax said. "Especially since the dancer who had every man in the room hypnotized just disappeared mid-shift. Manager said she never came back for her pay."
Drew's pulse skipped. "She didn't come back?"
"Nope. Like she never existed. Didn't even sign in. Weirdest thing."
Drew glanced at the silver mask in his hand. "Yeah," he murmured. "Weird."
"Anyway," Jax said, "you okay? You sound… off."
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you don't sound fine."
Drew ended the call.
He looked down at the mask again, frowning. It didn't feel like coincidence anymore. It felt like a message.
But from who?
And why him?
That night, the city glowed beneath him — a grid of gold and shadow. Drew sat in his penthouse again, lights dimmed, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him.
The mask lay on the table, the photo beside it. Two pieces of a puzzle he didn't ask for.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, and for a moment, he thought he heard it — a soft whisper, faint as memory:
"Sometimes connection is more dangerous than desire…"
He opened his eyes sharply. The apartment was silent.
He stood, uneasy, walking toward the balcony. Wind brushed against his shirt sleeves. He looked out at the city — restless, alive — and caught sight of something across the street.
In the window of the opposite building, a shadow moved — slow, deliberate. Someone was standing there. Watching.
His pulse jumped.
The figure didn't move away. It simply raised a hand and touched the glass — a faint, deliberate gesture — before the lights in that apartment went out.
Drew stood frozen, breath shallow.
The wind shifted again, carrying that same scent — faint roses, smoke, impossible.
He turned back toward his living room.
And stopped.
The silver mask was gone.