There was a kind of electricity in Luka's apartment now — not the hum of actual lightbulbs, but the hum of shared intent.
Luna adjusted his cufflinks for the third time, catching his own reflection in the mirror, watching the sharp lines of his suit coat and the lean, deliberate set of his shoulders. Luka, at his side, was half-bent over the tie selection, flicking each silk option like it was a tarot card in a reading.
"So." Luka's voice was casual, but his eyes flicked up from the ties. "If — and I mean if — Rachel is Ryan, how exactly are you planning to prove it? You're not just going to walk up to her and yank her mask off in front of a hundred people, right?"
Luna gave him a thin smile. "No. I need finesse. One moment where she slips. She's human — whoever she is — and humans… slip."
Luka chuckled, shaking his head. "You sound like a hunter describing a deer."
"That's not inaccurate."
For a moment they dressed in silence, buttoning waistcoats and smoothing collars. The air was thick with possibility, a quiet kind of thrill neither wanted to say aloud. Luka kept glancing over, clearly trying to picture what would happen if their hunch proved true.
By the time they were fully dressed — Luna in a black waistcoat with subtle embroidered patterns that caught the light, Luka in dove-grey with an open smile — they looked like the kind of men who belonged on the cover of some elite society magazine.
The ride to Lovewin Manor was a quiet one, but not a comfortable quiet. Every bump in the road seemed to rattle their shared anticipation.
When the car pulled up to the wide stone steps of the manor, Luna's heart gave an involuntary kick. There she was — Rachel — waiting at the foyer as if she'd been posed there deliberately, sunlight catching on the white frock Anna had designed for her.
The dress was soft as cloudlight, hem and sleeves ringed in delicate embroidery of garden flowers. Against the pale fabric, the rich hues of the blossoms seemed almost alive. She wore gloves, fine lace that ended at the wrist, and over her face, the embroidered mask — white silk, matching her dress, patterned with faint gold thread. It covered the lower half of her features, but the eyes, those perfectly composed eyes, remained untouched.
She was a vision. A perfect bride in waiting.
And Luna was almost certain she wasn't who she claimed to be.
He stepped forward, smile sharp but eyes searching. This was his moment — if he could just touch her, just gauge the lines of her cheek beneath the mask…
"Rachel," he murmured, leaning in, his hand half-raised as though to cup her face in an intimate greeting.
But she saw it — sensed it — and the faintest arch of her brow cut through his intent like a blade. That small, withering condescension froze him in place.
Instead, he dropped his hand and gave a small nod, falling into step beside her as she turned gracefully. Luka followed, the faintest smirk on his lips as though to say, strike one.
Inside, the Lovewin Manor smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh-cut roses. The sound of voices drifted from somewhere deeper — the garden, no doubt — but Rachel led them herself, her every movement deliberate, measured, as though she could hear the rhythm of their steps behind her and adjust accordingly.
Halfway through the tour to the garden, Luka tried his first ploy.
"Let me get you something to drink," he said warmly, moving toward a side table where crystal glasses and chilled lemonade waited. He poured with a flourish, then turned to offer it — but his foot caught on the rug.
The glass tipped — a neat arc of golden liquid.
Rachel moved like quicksilver, sidestepping with the kind of agility no hoop skirt should allow. The lemonade missed her entirely and splashed down Luna's pant leg instead.
"Ah, hell—" Luka started, but Rachel's gloved hand was already on Luna's arm, steadying him, her voice a soft stream of apology.
"Forgive him," she said, turning her gaze to Luna, tone almost conspiratorial. "He means well, but grace was never his strong suit."
Luka flushed under the tease. "My bad," he mumbled, retreating a step as Luna dabbed at his trousers with a cloth napkin. Strike two.
From there, the garden opened before them — sprawling, perfectly manicured, with trellises strung with wisteria and tables laid out under silk canopies. Guests milled in pockets of polite conversation, teacups in hand, the sound of soft laughter mixing with the faint strains of a string quartet.
Luna bided his time. He tried to maneuver Rachel toward a table where the breeze threatened to overturn a napkin, hoping it might brush against her mask. She avoided it with a subtle shift of her weight.
He attempted to guide her past the cake table, thinking the precarious height of the frosted tiers might prove tempting for mishap — but her balance was impeccable.
It was Luka, finally, who found the opening.
They were circling back toward the main path through the garden when Luka "accidentally" stepped on the hem of Rachel's dress. It was subtle at first — just enough to still her — but then his foot caught in earnest, and she pitched forward.
And instead of catching herself, she landed — full-force — against another figure who had been passing by.
Ryan.
The moment froze.
Her hands were braced against his chest, his arms around her by reflex, and for the first time, both stood side by side.
Luna's breath caught.
It was only a second — maybe two — before Rachel stepped back, murmuring something about the clumsiness of the day, her tone still warm, still poised. But in that second, Luna saw something. The similarity in their height. The shape of the jawline beneath the mask. The way Ryan's eyes flicked — too quick, too guarded.
And Luka, beside him, had gone still, his earlier smirk replaced with something sharper, something alive with suspicion.
The party continued around them, the hum of conversation never breaking — but between the three of them, something had shifted. A crack had opened.
And Luna wasn't going to let it close.
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