"You think a mask hides truth," Juliette says as she tugs a white mask off and drops it at his feet.
"Juliette—" Wesley grabs at the mask like it's a prop in a joke he expected to star in. His smile is too wide. His hand shakes on the glass of champagne.
"Put that on," Juliette says. Her voice is slow. Her fingers are steady.
"What?" Wesley laughs. "This is mine. I paid for the—"
"Put the black one on," she repeats.
Wesley fumbles. Arabella's laugh tips high and bright, a practiced bell. "Oh, Jules, you're teasing. We all saw the charity's masked donors list. Who are you playing tonight?"
"I always play tonight," Juliette answers. She steps back so the gilded light hits her face. She lets the room see her white mask on her wrist like a bracelet, casual and dangerous.
Wesley slides the black mask over his face. It sits wrong. The eye holes are off; his expensive tux looks suddenly a costume. People glance. Someone's phone lights up. A woman at the next table points. A low ripple runs through the ballroom.
"Why are you staring?" Wesley demands, voice high-pitched now. He forces a laugh that sounds like a cough.
"Sir, your mask is the donor band mask," the event coordinator says from the dais, furious. "This is a private auction. Masks show table tiers. That black mask—" She lifts one like evidence. "That's volunteer issue. Not guest."
Wesley
