Page 61 of Fated Love with You
The ballroom is dripping in gold. Gilded moldings crown every arch and corner, and rows of glittering crystal chandeliers cascade from the ceiling like frozen fireworks. Five ornate mezzanine levels spiral upward, each ringed with wrought iron railings where guests lean over to sip champagne and spy on the dance floor below. The entire space glows with warmth and decadent intimacy.
I catch sight of my reflection in a mirrored panel to my left and take a long double-take as if I haven’t seen it before.
It’s a fitted, sleeveless silver gown that glitters with thousands of sequins, hugging my curves like a second skin. A deep V-neck reveals the soft swell of my breasts, and the waist cinches with a delicate belt of hand-set crystals that match the long, sweeping diamond earrings grazing my shoulders.
“Miss?” Someone calls from behind. “Miss?”
I turn around to see one of the valets. “Yes?”
“Your driver says you forgot this in the car.” He hands me my masquerade mask, and its diamonds shimmer as I grab it.
“Thank you.”
I slide it over my face, watching myself in the panel. The shape is uniquely mine—half princess crown, half masquerade.
“You look amazing tonight, Miss Jane.” Chester appears beside me, cleaned up in a fitted tux. “If all goes to plan, you’ll make a very good mob queen for Mr. Rochester in the future.”
“That’s sarcasm, isn’t it?”
“That’s me saying I’m glad as fuck he never saw your dress before this event.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s also me saying tick-tock. You’ve wasted two minutes, and I’ve got men waiting to move.”
Right. “Thank you.” I walk away from him and follow the signs for the first “powder room.”
Pushing the doors open, I let out a sigh of relief when I see that there’s no one inside. I quickly make my way to the last stall and press one of the stickers on the back of the handle like Ryder ordered.
Before I can consider whether I’m supposed to keep him up to date, my phone buzzes.
Ryder
1 down. 19 to go.
Keep moving…
I set a timer and oblige, catching glimpses of the party and accepting compliments between slipping in and out of powder rooms. Unfortunately, none of the next ones are as easy as the first.
Between the crowding at the mirrors, the occasional line snorting off the sink, the last stall is usually occupied by the time I arrive and I have to stand around waiting.
Still, I manage to make good time.
Ryder
16 down. 4 to go.
As I’m stepping into seventeen, I notice a pair of custom stilettos in the last stall.
Sighing, I walk over to the mirror and take off my mask. I reapply a bit of eyeshadow and gloss, and suddenly the sound of my favorite concerto plays outside in the ballroom.
My heart aches a bit at the idea that I’ll never get to dance to it—or anything else with Ryder tonight, but the sound of the last stall flushing snaps me out of those thoughts.
Seven minutes…
The door opens, revealing a woman in a stunning red dress and complementary heels.
“Oh wow,” she says, smiling. “Your dress is incredible.”
“Thank you. Yours, too.”
“I hate to see that you’ve spent most of tonight in the bathroom.” Her smile is gone. “You must have an extremely weak bladder, or…” She takes off her mask, revealing herself to be the FBI agent I saw weeks ago.
