“You’re not supposed to know it’s me,” she said, her voice muffled behind the ornate black and gold mask. She tilted her head, the feathers on her mask catching the flicker of the chandelier light.

The ballroom was alive with swirling gowns and masked faces, the air thick with the scent of perfume and champagne. Tristan recognized her immediately—Paige. Her dark hair was pinned up, loose curls framing her face, and her emerald-green dress clung to her curves in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“I’d know you anywhere,” he said, stepping closer. She laughed, the sound low and teasing, but before she could reply, the music shifted, and a hand landed on Tristan’s shoulder. “May I cut in?” a stranger asked, his mask obscuring everything but a sly smile. Paige’s eyes met Tristan’s, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.