Chapter 206
Cecilia’s pov
“I’m not entirely sure either,” Yvonne replied, shaking her head slightly, a faint frown forming.
Harper, who’d mostly come along for the adventure and the free champagne, looked around the room with zero recognition.
Even without the masks, she wouldn’t have known most of these women anyway–this wasn’t her crowd, and definitely not her scene.
Noticing their distracted expressions, I lowered my voice. “What’s wrong? Are you getting a weird vibe from this party too p>
Yvonne hesitated, then let out a soft laugh. “I’ve dealt with Mrs. Dahlia before. She’s a big-time philanthropist. She and her husband are the kind of couple who get invited to mayoral galas and charity auctions–not the type running some secret society or pyramid scheme p>
She gave a shrug. “Yeah, tonight’s a little… off. But I doubt it’s anything shady p>
“That’s fair,” I said, “but it never hurts to trust your gut. If we’re both getting a weird feeling, it’s probably worth paying attention p>
Yvonne gestured around the room. “Come on. Look at this place. It’s wall-to-wall society wives and trust fund fashionistas.
If someone were planning something shady, they wouldn’t do it in a house that’s basically on the Denver social registry.
They’d pick a backwoods lodge or a private island–something with fewer witnesses and no cell signal p>
“Still,” I said, staying firm, “better safe than sorry p>
I glanced at Harper’s champagne, reached over, and gently took it from her hand, setting it down beside mine.
Yvonne raised an eyebrow, clearly thinking I was overreacting.
She looked like she was about to laugh, but something about my expression made her pause.
She lifted her glass halfway, then hesitated… stared at the bubbles for a second… and finally set it down without taking another sip.
Whatever she saw in my face, it was enough to make her second-guess the champagne.
As we spoke, more women filtered into the ballroom–heels clicking, perfume trailing, masks glittering under the chandeliers.
Each arrival looked like she’d stepped out of a Vogue editorial–dripping with diamonds and couture labels.
The younger women were breathtaking, the older ones oozed boardroom confidence and country club polish.
But between the designer gowns and ornate masks, it was nearly impossible to actually identify anyone.
“Think Mrs. Dahlia realized she’d invited a few arch-nemeses and decided to slap on a masquerade theme at the last minute?” Harper tilted her head subtly toward Luna Dora. “Like you and that she-wolf over there p>
I smirked.
Maybe I wasn’t the only one here with a complicated guest history.
There were probably exes, business rivals, old enemies from charity boards and tennis clubs–not to mention the inevitable plus-ones who slipped through the cracks.
Mrs. Dahlia might have planned the event without considering all the potential conflicts, only realizing her mistake when confirming attendees today.
After lingering near the entryway for a few minutes, we ventured deeper into the ballroom.
Some guests nodded politely.
Others drifted over to make small talk–the kind that sounded friendly but always came with an edge, like they were mentally calculating your net worth.
Everyone was leaning into the masquerade vibe.
No one asked names outright, and even if someone recognized you, they played along–as if keeping up the illusion was part of the social contract.
Then a voice cut through the hum of conversation beside me.
“Well, fancy seeing you again p>
It was said lightly, almost teasing–but something in the delivery made my shoulders tense.
She didn’t say my name.
But she said “again.” And I was standing closest.
I turned, slowly, finding myself face to face with a small group of women–four or five, all dressed like the guest list for a Hamptons wedding.
The one front and center wore a white satin gown and a matching feathered mask–the kind of ensemble that screamed debutante ball meets PR campaign.
Miss Hazel.
I might’ve missed her if not for her voice, her posture, and that too-familiar shade of lipstick.
But between her signature curls and the stiletto-sharp tone, there was no mistaking her.
“Hello,” I said, managing a polite smile.
She didn’t return it.
She kept her chin high, posture pristine, and went straight for the jugular.
“I’m surprised someone with your reputation made it through the door. Not exactly the kind of guest this event was curated for p>
I blinked. Wow. No subtlety whatsoever.
Both Harper and Yvonne, standing nearby, turned their heads at the sound of her voice.
I didn’t flinch. My eyes–visible through the mask–crinkled with a warmth so practiced, it was practically weaponized.
My voice was sugar-sweet as I responded.
“You seem a little tense. I’ve got lavender spray in my purse–might help with your… social anxiety p>
Miss Hazel flushed from collarbone to forehead.
“You p>
Poor thing. Definitely not built for verbal combat.
Predictably, her squad of trust fund backup dancers jumped in to save her.
“You stole her boyfriend and you think you can act like you’re better than her?” one snapped.
“A little gold-digging nobody playing dress-up in couture. Pathetic,” another added.
Before a third could chime in, Yvonne “accidentally” spilled her drink on all of them–effortlessly chic in her execution.
Shrieks erupted.
Yvonne gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh no. I’m so terribly sorry. I have a delicate constitution–heart palpitations, you know. Sudden shrieking startles me. When I get anxious, my hands just… spasm p>
She batted her lashes like a Regency debutante with a fake fainting spell.
One particularly bold girl lunged toward her.
“You b–AHH p>
Her hand never landed.
Harper caught her by the wrist mid-swipe and yanked her aside like she weighed nothing.
“Let’s keep it civilized,” she said calmly, leaning in.
“Because if you want to act like a child, I’ll rip off that fashion tape holding your dress together and stuff it in your mouth p>
The girl froze.
Then the wine-soaked socialites scurried off to the bathroom, stilettos clicking like angry crabs on marble.
Miss Hazel, left behind and humiliated, looked like she might combust.
Our little social skirmish had drawn a crowd.
Curious guests circled like sharks sensing blood in champagne.
“See?” I said softly, voice practically a whisper. “So many people paying attention. You sure you want to keep going p>
I smiled like I was sharing a secret. But the older women nearby–ladies who’d ruled fundraisers, chaired boards, and navigated a thousand polite wars–knew exactly what they were witnessing.
You didn’t need to raise your voice to make a scene. You just needed to make the right people listen.
Whispers rippled through the crowd, the ballroom version of the local grapevine going into overdrive.
Miss Hazel’s skin went pale, then red again.
She didn’t say another word.She turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.
With her exit, all eyes swung back to me–the last woman standing in this little soap opera.
I gave the room a calm, practiced smile but didn’t say a word. Let them wonder.
To Harper and Yvonne, I murmured, “I’m going to step out for a moment p>
“Want backup?” Harper asked, ever the ride-or-die.
“I’m good,” I said with a small smile. “You two have fun. I’ll be right back p>
I walked toward the nearest exit with purpose.
I wasn’t actually heading to the restroom–I just needed a breath, and I figured the peanut gallery could use a few minutes without their main distraction.
Out in the hallway, I found a quiet alcove tucked between two display cabinets–just enough solitude to gather myself before diving back into the swirl of champagne and whispers.
A few minutes passed. Then I heard voices–low, urgent.
“She’ll be arriving any minute. She’s the real VIP tonight–Mrs. Dahlia’s personal guest. If we lock this down, we’re looking at Denver’s biggest deal in years. The gold mask–it has to go to her p>
“Got it p>
I froze, breath catching.
Target? Gold mask? Denver’s biggest deal?
So this wasn’t just a party after all. It was a power play in stilettos.
About ten minutes later, I heard the unmistakable rhythm of designer heels on polished stone.
Remembering the conversation, I peeked around the corner–casual but alert.
No one in sight yet.
I stepped out and drifted toward the main corridor, the one every guest had to pass through. I kept my pace unhurried, like I was just stretching my legs.
From down the hall, I caught sight of a woman walking toward the main reception.
She wore a black evening gown that hugged her figure with effortless precision. Head high, posture flawless, every step she took was deliberate–like she wasn’t just walking, but making a statement.
Under the chandelier’s glow, her skin looked airbrushed, her silhouette the kind that screamed discipline, money, and a personal trainer who didn’t take holidays.
She didn’t look like a guest.
She looked like a keynote speaker.
Was this the “Real VIP ” they were whispering about?