Rain had a way of clinging to Verrencia—silver threads of it sliding down the old stone façades and glass towers until the whole city looked like it was crying beneath its own elegance. Tonight, though, the rain was only a whisper outside the Moretti estate, where light spilled from chandeliers and laughter glittered like champagne.
Sofia Moretti adjusted the strap of her black silk gown in the hallway mirror. She had her mother's soft mouth and her father's sharp eyes, and she'd inherited a habit of walking into rooms as if she were reporting on them. The pearls at her throat were a concession to her father's insistence; he thought journalists should dress like heiresses when representing the family.
"Smile at least once," her father murmured as he appeared behind her, the silver in his hair catching the light.
"I'm smiling," she said, baring her teeth.
"That's baring, not smiling."
"Close enough."
He chuckled. Lorenzo Moretti was a man whose deals built half the city's skyline, but Sofia had grown up seeing the exhaustion behind the charm. He had always been proud that his daughter didn't need protecting. Tonight, however, he seemed distracted—his gaze skimming the ballroom doors where Verrencia's elite were already gathering.
"Someone special attending?" she asked.
"A guest of honor," he said. "An investor who prefers anonymity. He calls himself Mr. Black."
Sofia's brow arched. "That sounds like a movie villain."
"Perhaps. But the man's money speaks fluently."
Before she could ask more, her best friend Isabella appeared, wearing a red gown and a mischievous smile. "Are you coming to hide with the journalists or to dance with the sharks?" she teased.
"Maybe both," Sofia said. "Depends on which bleeds first."
They entered the ballroom together. Music swelled—a slow waltz threaded through with whispers and the clink of glasses. Politicians, art dealers, investors… and somewhere among them, a ghost named Mr. Black.
Isabella nudged her. "You should write about this circus."
"I prefer facts to farce," Sofia said, scanning the crowd.
That was when she saw him.
He stood apart, near the marble balcony doors—tall, shoulders set in the kind of stillness that comes from watching rather than joining. A black mask covered the upper half of his face, plain but precise, as if anonymity were tailored to him. He wore a dark suit with gloves that caught the light in dull sheen. Something about his stance made the rest of the party blur.
Sofia felt it before she understood it—a quiet pull, a wrongness that was not unpleasant. She frowned. "Isabella, who's that?"
"Where?"
"The man by the balcony."
Isabella followed her gaze, squinted, and then shook her head. "No idea. Probably another billionaire with commitment issues."
Yet Sofia couldn't look away. The masked man turned slightly, as if he felt her attention skim over him. Their eyes met across the room—his gaze dark and steady, her heartbeat a startled flutter. She told herself it was curiosity, nothing more.
When her father began introducing guests, Sofia took refuge near the champagne tower. She overheard fragments: mergers, new investments, the usual chatter. Then a hush fell.
A man's voice—low, measured—spoke near the staircase. "Mr. Moretti."
Her father's tone warmed in response. "Mr. Black. I was beginning to think you were a myth."
Sofia turned. The masked man had approached, carrying silence with him. Conversation died wherever he walked, as though the air deferred to him. He inclined his head slightly to her father, glove brushing his sleeve.
"And this," Lorenzo said, oblivious to the tension threading through his daughter, "is my daughter, Sofia."
For a second she thought the stranger might ignore her. Then he looked directly at her.
"Miss Moretti." His voice was smooth and deep, touched with an accent she couldn't place—somewhere between old Europe and smoke. "Your father speaks highly of you."
"That makes one of us," she replied before she could stop herself.
A pause. Then, a sound that might have been amusement—quiet, dark, brief. "Honesty. Rare here."
She met his gaze, unsettled. "And anonymity is common?"
"It protects what matters," he said.
"Or hides what shouldn't be seen."
Their words hung in the air, sharp enough to draw attention. Her father cleared his throat. "Sofia, why don't you—"
"It's all right," Mr. Black interrupted softly, though the softness was deceptive. "She's not the first to question a mask."
Sofia swallowed, unsure why her pulse quickened. There was no threat in his posture, yet everything about him radiated control. His mask caught the light; she glimpsed the faint curve of a scar near his temple, half-hidden.
Isabella appeared again, saving her from herself. "Sofia, the mayor wants a quote from you for the paper."
"Of course," Sofia said, grateful for the excuse. She turned away, feeling the weight of his gaze linger like a touch she hadn't consented to but didn't quite resist.
When she glanced back, he was gone.
Later that night, while guests drifted into drunken laughter and the string quartet softened, Sofia slipped onto the balcony. Verrencia sprawled below—rivers of light winding through its streets. She inhaled the rain-cooled air and tried to shake the image of him.
A voice came from the shadows. "You shouldn't stand alone out here."
Her hand tightened around the railing. "You shouldn't sneak up on people."
Mr. Black stepped forward, half his face still in darkness. "I didn't sneak. You simply didn't hear."
"Maybe you should wear bells," she said.
He tilted his head, studying her. "You aren't afraid."
"I don't scare easily."
"Then you haven't met the right monsters."
The sentence should have chilled her, but his tone was almost wistful.
Sofia faced him fully. "Is that what you are?"
"Ask the city," he murmured. "It will tell you many things."
Wind tugged at her hair. Beneath the mask, his eyes softened—barely. "Be careful what stories you write, Miss Moretti. Some truths don't want to be found."
Before she could reply, he stepped back into shadow, the sound of his footsteps dissolving into the rain.
She stood there long after he was gone, the city whispering below and her pulse refusing to slow. She told herself it was intrigue, professional curiosity. She didn't believe it.
Inside, music swelled again. The night resumed its glamour. But somewhere behind that mask, a man who called himself Mr. Black watched her through glass, a faint smile hidden beneath the anonymity he wore like armor.
The rain hadn't stopped by morning; Verrencia liked to keep its secrets under a wet veil. In the newsroom of The Herald, the scent of coffee and printer ink hung like fog. Sofia sat at her desk, tapping the end of a pen against her notebook, replaying last night's encounter.
Isabella dropped into the chair opposite, sunglasses hiding her hangover. "You've been staring at that page for fifteen minutes, darling. Either you're in love or you've finally run out of adjectives."
"Neither," Sofia said. "Just thinking."
"About the man in the mask?"
Sofia looked up sharply. "How—"
"You were practically vibrating when he spoke to you. Half the ballroom noticed."
"I was curious, not—whatever you think."
Isabella grinned. "Curious is how bad ideas start."
Before Sofia could reply, her editor, Marcus Veldt, strode past, dropping a folder onto her desk. "Since you're already thinking about powerful men in expensive suits, here's a real one. The finance minister. Investigate the new port project—money's leaking somewhere."
"Got it," she said, flipping the file open. Yet the first image that surfaced in her mind wasn't the minister—it was a pair of eyes behind a mask, steady and unreadable.
Later that afternoon, as she left the office, Sofia felt the hairs at the back of her neck lift. The street was crowded with umbrellas, yet she couldn't shake the sense of being watched. When she turned, she caught a glimpse of a black car idling across the road. Tinted windows. No plates.
Her phone buzzed: Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"
Silence. Then a low voice: "You shouldn't walk alone after dark, Miss Moretti."
Her breath caught. "Mr Black?"
"Names are dangerous. But yes."
"Are you following me?"
"I'm ensuring no one else does."
"That's not how protection works."
"It is when I'm the only one capable of it."
She stepped beneath an awning, rain running down the sides like glass beads. "You think I need saving?"
"I think you underestimate what curiosity costs in Verrencia."
"Then maybe you should tell me what I'm not supposed to find."
A faint pause. "If you keep digging, you'll learn soon enough."
The line went dead.
For a long moment she stared at her reflection in the phone screen—raindrops distorting her face. Then she exhaled, tucked the device into her coat pocket, and walked on, refusing to glance back at the car that eased slowly into motion behind her.
Somewhere inside that vehicle, Ramond watched through the rain, a hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. The city glided past his window—his city, his kingdom of silence. Protecting her, he told himself. That was the excuse he preferred tonight.
But the truth pressed closer: he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since she'd said his name like a challenge.