Chapter 212
Cecilia’s pov
In a room full of masks and teeth, swinging blindly would only get me devoured faster.
Across the room, I caught sight of Luna Dora and The Real VIP.
Dora looked like she was bracing for a bomb to go off–probably worried I’d say something that would unravel the Blood Moon Pack further.
Regina, though… her concern felt real. Genuine. The kind you reserve for someone who threw themselves into the fire–for you.
I stood there calmly, prepared to play this twisted game.
I offered Mrs. Locke a smile that barely touched my eyes.
“Madame Tarot,” I said with forced lightness, “please be gentle with my secrets p>
Mrs. Locke circled me slowly, her movements deliberate, predatory in the way a lioness sizes up its next kill.
“A man-killer with a beautiful face,” she declared, her voice loud enough to carry. “Skilled in deception and manipulating hearts. You just deceived an innocent woman moments ago. I know your true purpose p>
Across the room, The Real VIP’s expression shifted–a flicker of uncertainty beneath her mask.
She was clearly replaying our conversation in her head.
True, I’d warned her about the golden mask and shared what I’d overheard in the hall.
But the phone signal issue? She’d already discovered that on her own.
Around us, whispers slithered through the crowd like snakes in tall grass–sharp, fast, and eager to bite.
Mrs. Locke had already terrified her first “volunteer” into collapse, and now she was turning her full theatrics on me.
Some guests had begun to recognize me beneath the mask.
But most had no idea who I was–and all of them were eager for a revelation.
A mask removed in shame would feed Denver’s social grapevine for weeks.
Tomorrow, this would be brunch-table bloodsport in every country club and charity board meeting in town.
Beside me, Harper tensed like a coiled spring, ready to lunge if I gave the word–mutual destruction clearly an option she’d already accepted.
Yvonne clamped a hand over her mouth, visibly trembling but surprisingly strong for someone who usually wilted at the scent of conflict.
Strangely,Luna Dora didn’t look as gleeful as I’d expected.
She didn’t look like someone eager to watch me fall.
If anything, she looked like she wanted me to fight. To stand tall. To do to Mrs. Locke what I once did to her.
I took a breath and turned to face Mrs. Locke–not angry, not afraid. Just calm. Clear. Unshaken.
“You’re way off base,” I said, voice steady. “Let’s start with this: what does ’man-killer with a beautiful face’ even mean?
Are we really still pushing the tired idea that a woman’s beauty makes her dangerous? That’s not mysticism–that’s misogyny.
You might want to update your tarot deck, Madame p>
A few heads turned. A couple of muffled laughs.
“And ’skilled in deception’? What deception? Am I in disguise? Wearing someone else’s name?
Because I had a brief conversation with a woman–now suddenly I’ve manipulated her heart? That’s quite a leap p>
I stepped forward, voice rising just enough to carry.
“Vague accusations like that make your whole act look sloppy.
Mrs. Dahlia introduces you as some kind of mystical authority–but if you’re just going to toss out half-baked insinuations, you’re not doing her reputation any favors.
Especially considering p>
I turned, slowly, deliberately, scanning the faces in the crowd.
Some masked, some not. Many curious. More than a few uncomfortable.
“She gathered Denver’s most accomplished women under one roof tonight p>
Only to serve us up as props in your little circus.
Is that what passes for entertainment now p>
My words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty–it was loaded.
You could feel the shift in the room.
That final statement hit the room like a thunderclap.
Those who had been laughing moments ago, sipping champagne and enjoying the spectacle, suddenly realized they weren’t watching a performance–they were part of it.
Mrs. Dahlia’s face went pale. “This is manipulation!” she blurted. “It was just a game p>
“A game?” I repeated, my voice like flint. “Was it a game when that woman collapsed in fear? Or when you let your so-called Madame Tarot throw baseless accusations at your guests?
Tell me, Mrs. Dahlia–are we still your guests, or are we your puppets p>
“Madame Tarot only speaks truths she stammered, visibly unraveling.
“I don’t care if she calls herself Madame Tarot or the Oracle of the Apocalypse,” I snapped.
“She doesn’t get to humiliate people like it’s part of the show p>
I took a step forward. “The question stands–are we your guests, or just props in some twisted dinner theater p>
“Of course you’re my guests!” Mrs. Dahlia said, her voice rising. “It’s just… part of the experience. That’s all p>
“Mrs. Dahlia,” I said, voice drenched in ice-cold sarcasm, “your hospitality is truly… unforgettable.
With all due respect, I’ve had enough of your ’just’–and your crow-draped lunatic. I’m leaving p>
I turned sharply on my heel, heart pounding.
My heels clicked across the marble like gunshots in a cathedral.
Behind me, Yvonne clutched Harper’s arm and followed.
Our departure triggered a ripple effect.
Luna Dora shoved past one of Dahlia’s handlers and stalked toward the exit with her chin high.
From behind, the real VIP–a woman who hadn’t said a word all night–called out, voice shaking:
“Wait for me, dear!” And she hurried after us, shoes clacking unevenly on the ballroom floor.
For Moon’s sake, don’t follow us, I thought, panic rising, as the two women–well-meaning dead weights–trailed close behind.
Chairs scraped. Masks turned.
More guests began to rise–not in protest, but in quiet, collective rebellion.
Mrs. Dahlia’s voice wavered through the noise: “No, please–it’s just part of the experience! You’re missing the best part p>
But it was too late.
The spell had broken. The theater curtains had been yanked aside, and no one wanted to be part of the act anymore.
Through it all, Mrs. Locke didn’t blink.
She remained eerily still, her expression unreadable.
Not angry. Not flustered.
Just… watching.
Like a hawk tracing the arc of a rabbit’s final dash.
We reached the main doors.
I reached for the handle.
Pulled.
Locked.
Of course.