Captured By the Masked BRATVA (The BRATVA Masquerade #3)

Elena

The ballroom glitters like a dream I never asked to enter. Light ripples over the crystal chandeliers, sliding across silk gowns and mirrored walls until the entire space feels like it might dissolve into ash.

I stand among the brightness feeling like an echo instead of a person.

The dusky pink satin of my dress clings to my body as if it remembers how I used to breathe when I was still unbroken.

The fabric is soft, but I feel exposed beneath it, aware of every curve, every heartbeat.

My mask catches the light, a fragile shimmer of silver that hides nothing real.

Beneath it, my skin feels too warm, my lips too dry.

My hair feels heavy and falls in soft unruly waves that refuse to stay pinned, brushing my shoulders whenever I move.

I wish I could feel as lovely as my father insisted I look tonight, but nothing can break through the despondency left over from grief.

My father’s voice murmurs beside me, the same polished tone he uses when he wants to remind me that appearances matter more than feelings. I nod, smile when expected, and let the mask hide what he refuses to see.

“Play something memorable,” he says. “You will make our family proud.” I hear the threat in his tone and smile anyway.

I wish I could tell him no. That playing doesn’t bring me peace like it used to and we don’t deserve pride.

Instead, I move toward the stage where the quartet is pausing between two pieces.

The cello gleams beneath the lights, beautiful and terrible in its familiarity.

My pulse stutters as I reach for it, fingertips grazing the polished wood.

I haven’t played in front of anyone since the night everything went wrong, yet here I am again, about to open the wound in public.

The musicians give me polite smiles. I settle the cello between my knees, the weight grounding me.

I hover the bow for a breath above the strings.

The first note emerges, low and trembling, and the sound catches in my throat.

The melody gathers strength, rising and falling like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else.

Barber’s Adagio for Strings.

It was always Lev’s favourite. He once told me it felt like breathing underwater, both suffocating and serene all at once.

I never understood until I lost him. Every note now is a confession, a way of saying what I couldn’t say when he was alive.

The room fades away, the crowd fades away, until there is only the cello and the ache in my chest. I can almost see him in the music, a shadow at the edge of my vision.

When the final note dies, silence sweeps the room.

Then light applause breaks through, warm and distant, as if it belongs to another world.

I stand, bow, and hand the cello back to the true performer, murmuring my thanks.

My father’s expression is one of approval, but it means nothing.

The moment the music ends, I am empty again.

I slip off the stage and into the corridor behind the ballroom, desperate for air.

The hall is dimmer here, lit by sconces that cast long, soft shadows along the walls.

The faint scent of polish lingers. I walk slowly, my heels tapping against the marble, the echoes of the music still tangled in my veins. Each step feels heavier than the last.

All I want is to reach the terrace, to stand in the night air and let the sound of the city replace the ghost of the quartet.

My hand rises to adjust my mask. The satin ribbon catches against my hair.

I think of removing it entirely, of letting myself breathe as I once did before duty and guilt took everything bright from me.

The only sound now is the soft whisper of my gown brushing the floor. I reach the terrance and inhale deeply, closing my eyes against the tears that still want to fall whenever I think about my best friend.

I miss him. I miss how much easier he made everything feel just by being around.

Now I just feel trapped in a life that doesn’t fit me and there’s no way out.

I let my mind drift to other places, places I want to go, places far away from here.

My heartbeat slows down to a rate that doesn’t make me want to vomit and the tension in my shoulders eases a little.

For a moment, I believe I have escaped. Then a hand closes around my wrist.

It is warm, firm, unhesitating.

I turn, startled, and meet the eyes of a man I don’t immediately recognise behind his mask. His voice is low, almost intimate.

“You shouldn’t have played that.”

The words hang between us, heavy and cold, and the music that had carried me moments ago turns to smoke inside my chest.