The music in the ballroom was thick with heat and money.Aanya felt it in her skin, in the tips of her fingers as she weaved through the glittering chaos — the silk gowns, the jeweled masks, the laughter that had the sharpness of broken glass.
She didn't belong here.Not under the opulent light of chandeliers so vast they could crush a person in one fall. Not in the warm perfume haze of women with diamonds pinned like stars in their hair. Not in the slow, calculated movements of men who looked at every person in the room as a potential acquisition or a disposable asset.
She had one purpose.Get in. Get the evidence. Get out.
And right now, her exit was looking less and less likely.
The stolen data chip — small, black, and humming with the promise of a career-making exposé — burned against the inside of her thigh where it rested in a hidden slit pocket. Her fingers itched to check it, to make sure it was still there. But any extra movement would draw eyes. And in this place, eyes were currency.
At the far end of the ballroom, musicians coaxed velvet and gold out of their instruments — strings weaving with trumpet bursts, the deep slow boom of a drum sinking into the floor. It didn't match the way her pulse was sprinting.
Her eyes flicked to the balconies above. Black-suited guards lingered there, their stances casual but their eyes scanning like predatory birds.She'd studied them for weeks — the patterns, the shifts, the blind spots. But being in the middle of it now, with sweat prickling her spine, was different. The risk felt alive.
Aanya smiled faintly at a passing guest — a man whose mask gleamed with ivory horns — and slipped through a set of double doors into a quieter corridor.
Here, the air changed. Cooler. Shadows stretching between gold-trimmed wall sconces. Gilded frames of oil paintings stared down at her — all stern men and cold-eyed women. Their stares felt heavier than the guards'.
Her heels clicked against marble as she moved quickly but without the panic of prey. Panic was blood in the water.
Halfway down the hall, she heard it — footsteps.Slow. Even. Unhurried.Not the brisk clip of a guard changing position.Not the echo of another guest.
Her body went still, every nerve sharpening. She told herself to keep walking — but the sound was getting closer, deliberate in its approach, and she knew…He'd found her.
A shadow lengthened across the corridor before he stepped into view.
He was taller than she'd imagined from the whispers. His shoulders broad under a black suit so perfectly tailored it looked grown from him. The mask was unmistakable — a sweep of black feathers fanning high to one side, catching the light with ghostly shimmers of emerald and sapphire. The beak was sharp, almost a blade's curve.
But it was his eyes — molten, steady — that pinned her in place.The Black Peacock.
He didn't rush. He didn't need to. The air seemed to bend around his presence, thickening until her breath felt shallow.
"Running so soon?"His voice was a rich, dark current, smooth but with something dangerous beneath.
Aanya's throat tightened. "I was just leaving."
"Were you?" He took another step, closing the distance until she could see the delicate etching along the gold rim of his mask. "You've been touching things that don't belong to you."
She lifted her chin. "Maybe they didn't belong to you, either."
For a heartbeat, there was silence — the kind that feels like a decision being made.
Then he moved.Not fast — no sudden lunge. Just a controlled step forward until her back brushed the cool marble pillar behind her. One gloved hand came up beside her head, caging her in without touching. The other traced — just barely — the edge of her mask. A whisper of leather against skin.
"Your name," he said, though it didn't sound like a request.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I like to know the names of people who owe me something."
Her pulse was thundering now, every muscle fighting the urge to lean away and lean closer at the same time. "And if I don't tell you?"
His lips curved — not a smile, but something darker. "Then I'll find out myself. And I promise… my way will be far more interesting."
Her breath caught. She wasn't sure if it was fear or something she didn't want to name.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low thread that slid under her skin."Run now, little reporter. I'd like to see how far you think you can get."
The drumbeat from the ballroom swelled, vibrating up through the floor like a countdown.
She didn't think. She ran.
Her skirt whispered against her legs as she darted down the corridor, through another door, into the chaos of masked bodies and chandeliers. Behind her, she could feel his gaze like heat — not chasing, not calling for guards, just… watching.
Which was worse.
Because she knew that if he wanted to catch her, he would.And some part of her — the part she was already trying to silence — wasn't sure she wanted to get away.