I search for the right response—something to give me a sliver of advantage—but as he turns us toward the French doors across the room, my thoughts slam into a wall.

Near the champagne fountain, a woman leans in, her expression serious.

But it’s the man beside her who freezes me.

His masked face is angled enough to catch the line of his jaw, the sweep of hair curling over his collar, the distinctive way he stands.

Cocksure and ready to take on the world.

My breath stutters, then stops altogether.

Because for one impossible second…

I’m looking at Sebastian.

21

My mind is shattered. Even after dancing, dessert, and polite conversation that blurred into background noise, I can’t steady my thoughts. Now, as Mr. Davenport escorts Oliver and me down a quiet corridor, the music from the ballroom fades.

But I’m still haunted.

It happened so fast. A flicker of movement across the room, a man half-turned in profile, listening to something the woman beside him said. But for a single, unthinkable moment, I was certain.

So certain that my heart kicked out of sync and my breath stalled as I gaped at a ghost in a tailored tux.

It wasn’t him.

The hair was too dark, the jawline buried beneath scruff Sebastian would never grow that long. The stranger and his companion disappeared through the French doors, probably in search of a quiet place to rendezvous in the garden.

Not the love of my life.

Just a random man at a masquerade.

So why am I still shaking?

As Mr. Davenport leads us into a private lounge, I push the storm of thoughts aside. Whatever I saw or imagined won’t help me now. Not with what waits in this room.

“I’ll be right outside,” our host says, closing the door with a soft click.

I let the silence settle as I take in the space. Luxury meets privacy, with soft light spilling from crystal sconces. A floor-length mirror reflects the chaise and vanity, both framed in gold. Jasmine and secrets float on the air.

Oliver finds my zipper without a word. He draws it down with agonizing tenderness, and the silk falls away in a whisper of burgundy as his knuckles graze the curve of my spine.

“Arms up,” he commands.

I comply, watching his reflection as he retrieves a garment bag from a wheeled rack. What he pulls free is little more than white wisps and strategically placed panels.

“That isn’t a dress,” I say, challenging him with my tone. “It’s lingerie.”

“It’s both.” He traces the curve of my shoulder. “And something else entirely.”

The material seduces my skin as he slips it over my head. Each strap settles into place, forming a deceptive lattice. Hidden within the design are subtle metal rings and reinforced seams—attachment points disguised as ornament.

This gown was engineered for more than display.