Prologue
I’m here. I don’t want to be, but I am. For the last few hours, I’ve been primped, scrubbed, dried, applied, and any other formal occasion pampering you can think of. Work not pampering. Her words echo in my head. “You must be perfect, nothing out of place, and be demure.” My mother, Margaux Elizabeth Masters Morgan, is the epitome of perfection—well, perfection bought and paid for. If anything, my mother is the definition of marrying for money, or more money considering her family already had plenty. She’s tall and thin with bottle blonde hair and the perfect wardrobe for any and every occasion.
Warren Morgan, my dad, is particularly good-looking for his age. He’s tall and fit with salt and pepper hair, but it’s obvious sweets are his weakness. He worked his way from the mailroom to the top of a Fortune 500 company and made smart financial decisions on his way up. I’m more like him than my mother. I love my work, and I look forward to crafting my designs every single day. Most people can’t say that about their job.
The ballroom at the Plaza is expertly decorated. Reds, golds, and black adorn every surface. Small lights twinkling overhead weave through red tulle. The masquerade ball to benefit the arts is about to begin. This burgundy dress with sequins, crisscrossing straps, and a fitted skirt is my own design. My Jimmy Choo’s add a solid three inches to my height, bringing me almost up to my brother Cassius’s shoulder, who is over six feet tall. I arrive at the same time as my two older brothers. Once we step into the ballroom, we go our separate ways. August is the luckiest of the bunch. My youngest brother was able to squirm out of this event simply because Mother let him.
I love the allure of a masquerade ball—everyone cloaked in secrecy because their faces are hidden. It allows me to be the real me, not the high society rich girl my mother wants me to be. Surprisingly, my parents allowed me to follow my dream of becoming a fashion designer. The Fashion Institute gave me the skills to take my childhood passion and sketches forward into the real world. I would spend hours on end drawing, sketching, and fabricating clothing for my dolls. I hosted fashion shows in my room. Tonight, though, I’m looking to have some fun.
There are plenty of eligible bachelors Margaux would deem worthy of my time and energy. Thorsten Thomas IV is a suitable place to start as an example. He’s gorgeous and would make most women swallow their tongue—tall and rugged but clearly gets a weekly manicure. He works alongside his father at a hedge fund for over a hundred hours per week. He’s using most of his free time for the next two days here this evening. I would date him, but I know he isn’t what I’m looking for long term.
Across the room in the black and blue mask is Jameson Michaels, heir of a shipping magnate. He’s almost too pretty for words. He also puts in tons of hours, but his off-hour tastes are rumored too risqué to pass any test Margaux would throw at him. I’m all for surprises in the bedroom, but he comes too close to Christian Grey for my taste.
Margaux’s requirements for a husband are vastly different from mine. Despite allowing me to go to college, Mother deems my career not worth pursuing. She would like me to get married, start popping out grandchildren, and keeping a grand home like she chose to do. I’d like to say I want it all, and part of me does, but I’m not fool enough to think it’s possible. I’m sure choices will be necessary on either side of the equation to find some sort of work-life balance. However, there’s no scenario where I don’t want to design the most spectacular gowns for my clients and have a family in the future.
The air leaves the ballroom when he enters. The collective gasp announcing his presence is deafening. It seems as if there’s a beat of silence and appreciation from every female in the room. Tall, dark, sharp jawlines—he’s a sight to behold. His tux, clearly custom, fits his body like a glove. His broad shoulders were sculpted by hours upon hours in a gym. I have never seen him at an event before.
Casually, I sip my champagne as he walks to the bar to my left. I only resist the urge to stare for the slightest of moments. Our eyes meet as I gaze in his direction. I tip my glass and turn away. I don’t intend to play games, but I wasn’t prepared for him to catch me staring. My reprieve lasts only for a fleeting moment as he moves next to me.
“Hello,” he says in a deep, soft voice close to my ear. A warmth rushes over me like I’ve never felt before.
“Hello.” I turn to look into his eyes. His mask is black and gold. The flecks in his irises reflect the golden hue.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, extending his hand.
I pause, taking in his mouth and jaw. His lips are perfect, kissably perfect. The desire to lightly graze them with mine tears through my mind.
“Yes, thank you.” I slide my hand into his and electricity flies up my arm as he tucks it around his, holding it in place. Manners, nice. He may be new to this group of art benefactors, but he acts the part. One point for the masked god whose arms are equally as defined as his shoulders. He turns me into his body and winds his hand around my waist. The other is intertwined with mine and resting over his heart, which is pounding through his jacket. This dance is miles apart from every other I have been a part of in my life.
Our bodies fit like puzzle pieces—a precise fit. His hold on me is tight but not suffocating. I can tell he’s strong and well built—the type of hard body that takes hours and dedication to earn and maintain. I wonder if his abs have that sexy V-cut leading down to…. As my mind drifts to areas it should not be, Mr. Black and Gold Mask dips me slowly from left to right. I didn’t know it was possible, but he coaxes me in even closer, yet still not too tight. This is heavenly. I can feel the stares of the gaggle of single women in the room who notice that he isn’t alone any longer. With my cheek resting on his chest, I hear his heart strumming through his jacket. His chin nestles softly on the crown of my head.
We never leave the dance floor. I spend hours in his arms through slow songs and dance jams. Our bodies move in sync despite the change in tempo. We maintain the hypnotic rhythm that we started with. When I feel his chest expand as he takes a deep breath, I slowly pull back to look into his eyes. They’re perfectly framed hazel eyes with expertly placed flecks of gold. His gaze settles on mine before he speaks.
“Would you like to get a drink with me at the bar—” He pauses, bringing his lips near my ear before finishing. “—in my room?”
My brain and my heart are screaming in opposite directions. A third voice creeps into my head. My libido wins the battle because it’s screaming the loudest, and it’s saying, “Yes, yes, YES!” We glide our way through the dancing crowd and hurry to the elevator. The snick of the door closes us in.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
