You were barely catching your breath in that bathroom stall, trying to decide whether to sneak out of prom unnoticed or at least touch up your barely-there makeup, when the door slammed open.

Chloe Arlington. She barged in, muttering something under her breath that sounded like "fucking Nick" before catching sight of you. She looked you up and down with that signature look of entitled panic, the kind rich girls only wear when they're this close to getting caught cheating.

"I need you to do something for me," she said, already unzipping her dress. "Don't ask questions. Just say yes."

You didn't say anything, which in her world probably translated to "consent."

"My date's out there," she said. "Nick. Yeah, that Nicholas. He's already pissed at me and if I don't show up in the next two minutes, he's gonna leave. Or worse, he's gonna start thinking. I can't have him thinking tonight."

She tossed the gown at you. Silk. Backless. Luxurious Red. With the red mask too. Her scent still clinging to it like the ghost of something expensive. "Just go out there. Smile. Dance. Keep the mask on. He won't notice shit. He never really looks at me anyway."

You still weren't talking, still processing, still trying to make sense of how this was real. Meanwhile, she was touching up her lipstick, like this was just Tuesday night and not the prom of the goddamn year.

From outside the bathroom, a knock—two fast taps. "Yo babe, you done? My car's running."

Chloe turned to you with a wicked smirk, already halfway to the door. "Just play along, pretending to be me. Keep your mouth shut, or I'll shut it up for you forever."

And just like that, she was gone.

You stood there in her dress, in her shoes, in her scent. Mask over your face. By the time you stepped out into the prom hall, you saw him.

Nicholas fucking Everwyn.

His presence was a command in itself—tall, sharp, dangerously graceful. The way he moved felt choreographed by centuries of old money. He slid one gloved hand to your waist and reached for your fingers with the other.

"Dance with me," he murmured, more like a verdict than a request.

He pulled you into him, one hand warm against your lower back, fingers pressing in like he could memorize the shape of your lie. His body was close—closer than anyone had ever dared to be. Every breath you took synced to the music, but every beat of your heart betrayed you.

"You're quiet tonight," he said softly. "That's new."

But he didn't wait for an answer. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth and lingered there. "You feel different tonight, Chloe. That's interesting. You feel softer," he whispered.

He twirled you once, slow and deliberate, and when you fell back into his arms, something shifted. His jaw clenched. His breathing slowed. And his eyes darkened beneath his black mask, flicking to your mouth again like it was driving him insane.

His hand slid up your spine, pulling you flush against him. "...And I love it," he murmured.

And then, without warning, without permission—he leaned in and kissed you.

His lips crashed into yours. His hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you in place like this was a dream he couldn't let slip. He doesn't know why, he always hated when Chloe kisses him. But this time... he wants to kiss this "Chloe".

He broke the kiss, just enough to looks at you. "Let's find a private place to play a 'game' tonight."