The ballroom glittered with impossible light. Crystal chandeliers swung overhead, flinging rainbows onto the swirling dancers. Every guest shimmered—velvet and silk and gold, masks hiding their eyes but not their hunger. The air pulsed with wine and longing.
Jolene watched from the edge of the crowd. She wore a dress she'd never seen before, sapphire blue with a neckline as daring as her dreams. She felt both invisible and powerful all at the same time.
He stood in the center of it all—the man everyone pretended not to see. He didn't wear a mask, though he had a face made for hiding secrets. Black hair, pale skin, cheekbones cut from marble, lips set in an amused, dangerous slant. His eyes were old, older than the house, but his body was pure sin.
When his gaze found her, the room faded. It was as if he'd known her all his life. His lips curled in the barest hint of a smile, and Jolene's heart beat double-time.
She tried to look away, but he moved towards her—gliding, almost floating. His presence was electricity: not frightening, but heart-stopping in its certainty. He held out a hand, waiting. Jolene found herself slipping into his arms as if it were the only thing she'd ever wanted.
"You don't belong here," he whispered, voice low and edged with midnight.
"Neither do you," Jolene replied, surprising herself with her own boldness.
He laughed—a sound like thunder and velvet, warming her from the inside. "Careful, Miss Sparks. This house remembers everything. Especially those who dare to dance with ghosts."
Before she could answer, the scene flickered. The music rose to a fever pitch, the lights swirled, and suddenly she was alone again, heart hammering in the quiet. She awoke tangled in sheets, lips tingling, her hand clutching a single midnight-blue rose.