Chapter 3 — Names Erased
Ava stepped into the Crimson Room, the heavy door sealing shut behind her with a muted thud. A wave of warm, crimson light washed over her, painting her skin in shades of sin. The air hung thick with the scent of amber and musk, wrapping around her like a velvet glove. Massive drapes of deep scarlet cloaked the walls, swallowing sound, while above, a mirrored ceiling threw back fractured reflections of the decadence below. Her own masked face stared down at her, a stranger in black lace, her breath catching at the surreal twist of reality.
The slow, hypnotic pulse of strings and soft percussion slithered through the space, guiding bodies in a languid dance. Men and women, faces hidden behind ornate masks of gold and obsidian, moved with deliberate grace. Some swayed in pairs, hands tracing bare shoulders or dipping low along spines. Others lounged on plush chaise longues, sipping amber liquid from crystal flutes, their laughter a low hum beneath the music. Women in sheer silk and delicate lace drifted through the crowd, their skin glowing under the red haze, unashamed and untethered. No one flinched. No one recoiled. It was a game, a carefully choreographed ritual, and every touch, every glance, seemed to carry unspoken rules.
Ava’s pulse hammered in her throat as she edged forward, her heels clicking on the polished obsidian floor. Her reflection stalked her from below, a shadow twin mimicking every uncertain step. She didn’t belong here, not yet, not without the playbook everyone else seemed to clutch invisibly. A man in a raven-feathered mask tilted his head as she passed, his gloved hand brushing her arm with a whisper of leather.
“New blood?” His voice curled like smoke, low and probing.
She forced a smirk, chin lifting. “Guess you’ll find out.”
His chuckle followed her as she slipped deeper into the crowd, weaving between bodies that pressed too close, fingers grazing her waist like she was already part of the dance. Her skin prickled, not from fear, but from the weight of unseen eyes. Somewhere in this labyrinth of desire, answers about her sister hid behind masks and murmurs. She just had to play along—without tripping over the invisible lines.
Ava had barely navigated a few more steps into the Crimson Room when a man in a gold mask materialized at her side. His movements flowed with a predator’s ease, each stride a silent command, each tilt of his head a calculated display. Without a sound, he extended his hand, fingers sheathed in black silk, palm up—an offering laced with challenge. The gesture wasn’t a question. It was a summons.
Her gut twisted, not with dread, but with a sharp, defiant edge. Something in his poised stillness felt too polished, too staged, like he’d already scripted her response. She didn’t appreciate being a pawn before she’d even learned the board. When his gloved fingers grazed her arm, her body locked tight, not out of alarm, but from the gall of his assumption. Through the slits of her mask, she locked eyes with him, her jaw tilting upward just enough to signal she wasn’t bending. Not yet.
Before the silent standoff could crack into something sharper, a figure emerged from the crimson haze—a woman, statuesque, draped in cascading black tulle that shimmered like a mourner’s veil. She moved with ghostly precision, slipping between Ava and the man, her hand pressing against his chest with a proprietary weight. “Let her watch a little longer,” she purred, her tone smooth as polished stone, rich with hidden intent. “The ripest fruit doesn’t fall too soon.”
Ava’s breath hitched, not at the words, but at the woman’s air of control. She wasn’t just part of the game—she was orchestrating it. The man yielded without a flicker of protest, allowing himself to be steered away, his gold mask glinting as he retreated into the crowd, a beast on an invisible leash.
Only then did Ava sense the weight of another stare, not close, but piercing from a distance. Her gaze drifted upward, drawn to the shadowed gallery overlooking the room. There, a figure stood, still as carved stone, masked like the others, but with a presence that pressed down like gravity itself. Not hungry, not seeking. Assessing. Measuring. His silhouette didn’t blend with the decadence below—it loomed above it, a mind sifting through pieces of a puzzle, and Ava, somehow, had just become an unexpected variable.
Raphaël lingered on the semi-dark balcony, the half-mask shielding his features, no insignia or crest to betray his name. He shouldn’t have been here, not tonight. The Crimson Room’s rituals were beneath his current restraint, a game he’d long since mastered and set aside. But her presence—unscripted, uninvited—had dragged him from his carefully constructed distance. Below, Ava moved through the sea of silk and shadow, a figure out of place yet refusing to shrink. His grip tightened on the cold iron railing, the metal biting into his palm as he tracked her every step.
She didn’t cower. Didn’t flutter or pose like the others, their bodies molded into practiced submission. No, Ava stood with a spine of steel, her head tilting as if dissecting the room’s undercurrents, her gaze slicing through the haze of seduction. A hunter in a den of prey, or perhaps prey with teeth. Raphaël’s pulse quickened, not with the familiar thrill of control, but with something rawer, less predictable. He saw the way her fingers twitched at her side, not from nerves, but from calculation. She was reading the space, the people, the unspoken rules—and she wasn’t buying into the illusion.
For years, the girls in this room had been roles to him, pieces in a meticulously staged play. Vessels for desire, for power, for fleeting distraction. But Ava… she wasn’t a role. She was a choice. A jagged edge in a world of smooth curves, a question mark where he’d only ever written answers. His chest tightened at the realization, a warning pulsing beneath his ribs. This wasn’t safe. Not for him. Not for the ironclad walls he’d built around what little remained of his capacity to feel. To want something—someone—beyond the script was to invite chaos, to risk the kind of fracture he’d sworn never to endure again.
Yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Her defiance, her quiet scrutiny, it gnawed at him, stirring a hunger he’d buried under layers of discipline. He leaned forward, just enough for the dim light to catch the edge of his mask, his shadow stretching long over the balcony’s edge. She hadn’t seen him yet, but he felt the pull, the invisible thread tightening between them. Dangerous. Undeniable.
Ava felt the weight of unseen eyes as a hand at her elbow guided her through the Crimson Room’s suffocating intimacy. The air clung to her skin, thick with the scent of amber and whispered promises. Her boots clicked against the obsidian floor, each step mirrored in the glassy surface below, doubling her presence into something ghostly. Ahead, the central pedestal loomed—a raised stage of polished stone, where other girls already stood, their bodies arranged like sculptures in a forbidden gallery. Their silk draped over curves with deliberate grace, faces half-hidden behind lace masks, lips parted just so. A living tableau, poised for inspection.
She climbed the shallow steps, her pulse a steady drum against the room’s slow, hypnotic strings. The other girls didn’t glance her way, their gazes fixed on some distant point, as if they’d been trained to dissolve into the ritual. Ava’s jaw tightened. She wouldn’t melt. Not here. Not for them.
A masked figure approached, his movements fluid, almost reverent, extending a glass of wine. The crystal caught the red light, glowing like a shard of blood. “For courage,” he murmured, voice muffled behind his disguise, a smirk curling beneath the edge of black leather.
She took it, fingers brushing the cold stem. The wine slid down her throat, dark and heavy, spreading warmth through her chest. Edges softened. The room’s sharp angles blurred into a haze, the pulse of music weaving tighter around her senses. Her thoughts grew sluggish, fog creeping into the corners of her mind, but she gripped onto her focus, refusing to drift entirely. This was no party. It was a ceremony, every gesture weighted, every breath a step in some ancient dance she hadn’t been taught.
A touch landed on her shoulder, light but firm, pulling her gaze upward. Her eyes locked with his—hidden behind a mask of sleek obsidian, only the sharp glint of irises visible. No warmth there, no flicker of desire. Just cold, unrelenting focus, as if he were peeling back her layers with a single look. Raphaël. She didn’t know his name yet, but the weight of his stare carved itself into her, marking her as something to be unraveled.
Raphaël’s gaze burned into Ava, unyielding, until the weight of it became a physical thing, a tether she couldn’t snap. He descended the steps from some shadowed balcony above, his presence slicing through the Crimson Room’s charged haze. Every masked face turned, the air thickening as murmurs fell silent. His mask was gone, stripped away, revealing a face carved from stone—angular, unreadable, with eyes like winter piercing through the dim red glow. A man unveiled, daring the room to look too long.
He stopped before her, close enough that she caught the faint trace of sandalwood on his skin. Without a word, he extended his hand, palm up, an unspoken command. Her fingers hesitated above his, the space between them crackling, before she placed her hand in his grip. Firm. Cold. He tugged lightly, guiding her off the pedestal, away from the staring sculptures of lace and silk.
They moved down a narrow hallway flanking the main chamber, velvet drapes brushing her shoulder as they passed. The hum of the Crimson Room faded, swallowed by an oppressive quiet. He pushed open a hidden panel, revealing a room behind a mirrored wall. Soft light spilled from a single overhead fixture, casting faint shadows across sparse furnishings—a chaise, a low table, nothing more. Silence reigned, dense and absolute, as if sound itself feared to tread here.
He released her hand, stepping to the table where a glass pitcher sat. Pouring water, he offered it without flourish, his movements precise like a surgeon’s. She took it, the cool rim pressing against her lips as she drank, feeling his stare etch into her every swallow.
Finally, he spoke, voice low, a blade wrapped in silk. “You don’t belong on that stage.”
Her grip tightened on the glass, water trembling inside. “And where do I belong?”
His eyes tracked over her, not hungry, but dissecting, peeling back the mask she still wore. “That depends on how much you’re willing to bare.”
The air stretched taut between them, heavy with unspoken storms, electric with what hid beneath their words. His face, unmasked, was a map of restraint—jaw set, lips a hard line, but something flickered in the depth of his gaze, a secret coiled tight, waiting to strike.
