His Haunted Desire

Prologue

AURORA

Blood pools from his chest, and his mouth is open in a cry of agony, but no sound comes out.

He died fast. Now he lies there with his mask still on: gold around the edges, the rest of it marble white, a show of power and dominance and status which did nothing to stop the knife from going into his chest.

This was never supposed to mean anything. It was an arrangement, a deal, a transaction. Nothing more.

So why am I grateful, then, that I’m wearing a mask so the other partygoers can’t see the tears rolling down my cheeks?