The mask was velvet—deep red, like a glass of wine halfway to spilled. Lía Navarro adjusted it slightly over the bridge of her nose, then tilted her chin toward the mirror. Her lips—bare, unpainted—felt like the only real thing in her reflection.
The rest of her was artifice: the slitted silk dress, black like ash; the heels that made her taller than the lie she was about to tell.
She wasn't here to fall in love.
She was here to look at love. Study it. Frame it. Deconstruct it until all that was left were shadows and hips and sweat.
Barcelona's underground art scene was half a secret, half a circus. Tonight, it spilled out into the gutted cathedral known as La Ruina, repurposed into a gallery lit by candlelight and colored smoke. Music vibrated through the stone walls like a lover's whisper—slow, pulsing, indecent.
Lía stepped inside, camera slung low across her hip, though she wouldn't shoot tonight. Not yet. First, she wanted to feel.
Her breath caught when she saw him.
Tall. Dark-suited. Lean in the way dancers are—like his body was built for rhythm, not restraint. He wore no mask. Just eyes that flicked toward her like a dare.
He stood at the center of the room, untouched by the noise and wine and wandering hands. Watching.
As if he'd been waiting for her.
Their eyes locked for one beat too long.
He moved first. Not fast. Not hesitant either. Just…certain.
When he reached her, he didn't smile. He didn't ask her name. He said:
"You don't belong here"
His voice was low. European, but blurred—Italian, maybe. Spanish with edges.
Lía's laugh curled in her throat. "Neither do you."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "That's true."
They stood close. Too close for strangers. But neither of them backed away.
It's a performance, she told herself.
It's only lust. I've felt this before.
But something about the silence between them felt heavy, like a prelude.
He reached out—no rush, no apology—and slid one finger along the exposed skin of her collarbone, as if drawing a boundary only he could cross. She didn't flinch.
"Dance with me," he said.
"I don't dance."
"You do now."
He took her hand and pulled her into the crowd just as the music shifted—slow and sticky like honey melting on skin. Bodies swayed like prayers around them, but Lía wasn't aware of anyone else.
His hands found her waist. Hers, his neck.
He didn't kiss her.
Not yet.
But he didn't have to.
His breath was warm against her cheek. His fingers pressed lightly at her spine, guiding her without force.
And for the first time in years, Lía didn't think about what came next.
She just moved.
When the song ended, she opened her eyes—and he was already gone.
No name. No goodbye. Only the echo of his touch on her bare back and the taste of something dangerous blooming behind her teeth.
She looked down at her hand.
In her palm: a black card.
No writing.
Just an address, scrawled in silver ink.
And a time: 2:00 a.m.
Her heart began to race.
She would go. Of course she would.
But she told herself it was for the story. For the experience. For the art.
Not for him.
Not for that heat curling between her thighs like smoke looking for fire...