The Invitation
highlight_author
Daphne Anders
highlight_reads
75.2K
highlight_chapters
3
Midnight Masquerade
I never believed in fate. Coincidence, yes. Chance encounters, strange timing, even the occasional superstition I indulged in just for fun—but fate? No.
Yet when I opened my door on the brisk morning of Halloween and saw a single black envelope lying on my doormat—something in me shifted. For a moment as I stood there, chilled by more than just the crisp autumn wind, I felt something… peculiar about it.
The envelope was a noir color, thick and expensive. My name was written in crimson ink on it, bold and elegant: Sophie Laurent.
Whoever had written the letter knew me—knew my name, and had gone to the trouble of writing it out.
Something about the weight of the letter—the secrecy—demanded consideration. I hesitated longer than I should have before sliding a finger under the flap and breaking the seal open to read the contents.
Inside was a single black card: You are cordially invited to the Midnight Masquerade at Holloway Manor. October thirty-first at the stroke of midnight.
That was all. There was no sender listed, nor an RSVP included. Only the deep red wax seal stamped with a crescent moon. I should have laughed it off, tossed it in the recycling with the grocery flyers and utility bills. I mean, who sends invitations like this anymore? But instead, I slipped it into my purse.
All day, it sat there, whispering to me. Rationality told me it was probably some Halloween stunt—a themed party, maybe even a marketing gimmick—but my own curiosity wouldn’t let me ignore it.
And so, before midnight, I found myself standing at the edge of Holloway Manor.
The estate loomed in the distance, surrounded by dark woods. The stone path stretched before me to the mansion, and its path lined with lanterns whose flames flickered in the still night. It was all too theatrical and too perfectly staged.
I should have turned back.
But I didn’t.
Each step I took toward the manor felt heavier, as though I was crossing into something—somewhere—towards someone that I didn’t understand. From inside, music sounded in the eerie distance.
I had dressed for the occasion—a black velvet mask around my face, disguising me yet making me feel seen at the same time. I painted my lips a wine-colored stain and I wore a short black dress along with thigh-high stockings and a black cape that hung over my shoulders. I wanted mystery, yes, but also temptation. I wanted to be noticed, even if I pretended otherwise.
As I neared the mansion, the massive doors swung open and in the threshold stood a man. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection. His mask was half a skull and the other plain velvet black.
I stopped in my tracks, stilling in place, blinking.
“Welcome, Sophie,” his voice sounded. His voice was low and rough—it was the kind of sound that didn’t just enter your ears but lingered.
My skin broke out in goosebumps. “How do you know my name?”
The corners of his mouth curved into a playful smile. “Because I’m the one who sent the invitation.”
I looked him over. His jawline was immaculate. His hair was perfectly placed. His body was rigid and strong. I gulped. “And who are you?”
He leaned closer to me and his lips brushed my ear slightly. “The host. Call me Damien.”
The name landed like both a warning and a promise. Damien.
His name was heavy with temptation and with a danger that I couldn’t yet define.
My pulse skipped and before I could question further, he extended his hand, gesturing me towards the inside of the mansion.
I stepped forward, and the world changed before me. Inside, chandeliers hung high—the marble floor was perfect and pristine and dozens of guests twirled across the grand hall, their faces hidden behind masks—gold, feathers, painted porcelain—even horned masks.
Their laughter and chatter rose and fell and yet, despite their distance and involvement with each other—I felt their eyes on me.
Or maybe it was just his. Damien.
His hand hovered just behind my back, not touching, although I wanted him to touch me.
I distracted myself by paying attention to the crowd that surrounded me. Every time I glanced around, I caught someone’s gaze lingering on me. I couldn’t tell if they knew me, or if they wanted to.
Finally, Damien’s black-gloved hand brushed my wrist, yanking me from my own thoughts. I startled at the contact, and he smiled as though he’d been waiting for it. His hand wrapped around my wrist as he tugged me along with him—through a sea of people. And I simply followed, caught in the awe of him.
We passed the grand hall, then went down a corridor lined with purple velvet drapes and candles. The music grew softer as the laughter faded slowly behind us.
Suddenly, he paused before a door that was draped in deep crimson velvet, then turned towards me and I caught a glimpse of his eyes—they were dark, intense, and burned with something that I couldn’t name.
“You don’t belong in the crowd,” he murmured, his tongue sliding over his lips.
My breath caught in my throat from his comment. “And where do I belong?”
He smiled again, this time wickedly. “Somewhere quieter.”
Before I could respond, Damien revealed the room and led us into it.
We were alone.
And for the first time all night, I realized just how dangerous my curiosity could be.
