Masked Doctor Daddy (Forbidden Silver Foxes #14)

Chapter 1 Perry

PERRY

My ex-boyfriend called me a gold-digger once. But he wouldn’t attract gold-diggers if his family didn’t hoard all the gold.

The Baylock estate rises out of the dark like it belongs here more than the mountains do, all stone and light and quiet confidence.

Heat spills from the windows, gold against the snow, and for a moment, I stand at the edge of the drive, letting it soak in.

The silence. The scale. The certainty that everyone inside knows exactly why they’re here.

I don’t want to see Jason ever again, but I step forward anyway.

The dress under my coat is impractical and wildly out of budget. I bought it knowing that. Bought it because Jason once told me red made me unforgettable. Bought it because I want him to remember me tonight, even if he doesn’t know why.

He won’t know, thanks to the mask. Black lace, delicate enough to suggest mystery, structured enough to hide the sharp angles of my face. No one here can know who I am.

I don’t get invited to the Baylock estate anymore.

A masked attendant takes my coat, and I pass my fake invitation to the other masked attendant. No one questions it. The invitations are set aside so Jason’s grandmother can write thank-you notes for those who showed up.

Warmth wraps around me, the smell of champagne and polished wood and money that’s never been questioned. Music drifts through the air, low and indulgent, encouraging bodies to sway instead of think. I take a glass from a passing tray and let my eyes adjust.

The Baylocks don’t do subtle. Crystal chandeliers hang like constellations. Marble floors gleam. Portraits of men with the same bone structure line the walls, generation after generation of confidence passing itself down like inheritance.

No one looks twice at me. Masks are permission not to ask.

I move with the crowd, slow and unhurried, letting myself be seen without being examined. The dress does its work. So does my posture. Head high. Shoulders back. Like I have somewhere I’m meant to be.

And then I see them.

Jason stands near the grand staircase, his arm loose around Faith’s waist. My sister glows in pale fabric, her hair swept up, her smile effortless. She looks happy. He looks relieved, like everything finally fell into place the moment I was removed from the equation.

My chest tightens, but I don’t stop. I didn’t come here to confront them. I didn’t come here to cry in a bathroom or throw a drink. I’m not here to cause a scene. That embarrassment would last for minutes.

My revenge plan will last for the rest of his life.

I drift past them, close enough to hear Jason laugh. Close enough to catch Faith’s perfume. He doesn’t recognize me. She doesn’t either. The mask does its job, and the universe, for once, keeps its mouth shut.

Good.

I step deeper into the house, letting the noise and movement settle around me. Tonight isn’t about impulse. It isn’t about heartbreak or rage, no matter how much of that I carry. And I have all the time in the world.

So I stop thinking like a guest and start thinking like a problem.

The first pass is reconnaissance. I let the champagne glass rest in my hand untouched while I learn the rhythm of the room.

Where the staff enters and exits. Which doors stay closed.

Which guests drift in predictable loops and which ones cut against the current.

Power leaves fingerprints if you know where to look.

The Baylocks know how to host. That’s obvious.

What’s less obvious is how much of the party is theater.

Security blends into the background, dressed just well enough to pass as guests, positioned just far enough apart to make escape inconvenient if someone were attacked. Nothing overt. Nothing sloppy.

I move along the perimeter, not lingering anywhere long enough to be remembered. A column offers cover. A velvet-backed chair gives me a place to pause. I adjust my mask like it’s slipping, tilt my head like I’m listening, laugh softly at nothing at all. I look like a woman enjoying herself.

I’m not. I’m counting.

Balconies overlook the main hall. Hallways branch off into quieter wings—private rooms, studies, places where conversations change tone.

Two staircases. One grand, meant to be seen.

One narrower, half-hidden behind a tapestry depicting some long-dead ancestor who probably thought he was untouchable.

All the Baylocks think they’re untouchable. Historically, they’re right.

Until tonight.

Jason and Faith drift in and out of my awareness like background noise. I don’t seek them out, but I don’t avoid them either. Avoidance would be obvious. Instead, I let the house do the work for me, allowing the crowd to funnel us near each other and then apart again.

Jason glances my way once. Just once. His brow furrows, the faintest crease of unease. He looks away before the thought finishes forming.

Good. Let that itch sit, cheater.

I reach the bar and ask for water. The bartender nods without comment, even though everyone else is half in the bag. I take a sip, grounding myself. The silk of the dress is warm now, my skin acclimated, my nerves steady.

And then the room subtly rearranges itself.

It’s not dramatic. No announcement. No sudden hush. Just a gentle redirection of attention, like iron filings shifting toward a magnet. Conversations soften. Laughter lowers half a notch. I follow the movement without turning my head.

Damian Baylock stands near the far wall, half in shadow, speaking to no one. That alone tells me everything. Men like him are rarely unattended unless they want to be. His posture is relaxed, hands loose at his sides, gaze sweeping the room with mild interest.

I don’t look at him directly. Not yet.

I watch reflections instead—mirrors, glass, the polished surface of a piano. His presence anchors the room. People orbit him without realizing it. Even Jason angles toward him instinctively, like his father’s approval is still a gravitational force.

I feel something settle in my chest. This is where it starts. My revenge.

I shift my position just enough to enter his peripheral vision. Not approaching. Not retreating. Existing where I can’t be ignored without effort.

He doesn’t look at me, but the space between us tightens anyway. I take another sip of water and wait. Timing is everything.

I give it time.

That’s the hardest part—resisting the urge to do something when doing nothing is the sharper move. I let the party breathe around me, let minutes pass, let patterns repeat. People grow looser as the champagne flows. Masks tilt. Laughter sharpens or softens depending on who’s listening.

If the party continues happily, Jason will never see this coming.

I become part of the scenery. The woman in red who dances and then disappears. The woman who stands at the edge of conversations and then slips away before names are exchanged. I’m memorable without being traceable.

Jason notices me again.

This time it’s not a glance—it’s a pause.

His gaze lingers too long, his smile falters.

I feel it like a tug between my shoulders.

He’s trying to place me. Trying to reconcile instinct with logic.

But I’ve cut my hair and styled it differently.

I never wore red when we were together, because I hated it.

I wear a fake tattoo on my arm—a twirl of ivy.

He knows my body, but tonight, I’m someone else.

I turn just as he looks, letting the light catch my hair, my mouth, the curve of my cheek beneath the mask. His breath stutters. He looks away fast, as if scalded.

Faith follows his gaze a second too late. Her eyes slide over me without recognition, then move on. She trusts the room. Trusts the mask. Trusts that nothing here can hurt her.

That trust is going to be very expensive.

I drift toward the staircase, not to climb it, just to exist near it. It’s a focal point—people pass through whether they mean to or not. I pause at the base, pretending to adjust the strap of my heel, aware of every line of sight converging on this space.

And that’s when I feel it. His attention.

I don’t need to see Damian Baylock to know he’s aware of me now.

The air changes the way it does when someone important decides to observe rather than participate.

I catch him in a mirror—just a fraction of his reflection—but it’s enough.

His gaze is steady, assessing, lingering longer than politeness requires.

I don’t meet it.

I tilt my head back in laughter at something no one said. Let the red of my dress catch the light as I straighten. Let myself be seen as an image, not a person. Something interesting. Something undefined.

I move away before his curiosity can turn into action. I keep it moving to keep him on his toes, circling my prey.

The house tightens as midnight approaches.

It’s subtle at first—conversations shorten, people check their watches, glasses are topped off more frequently.

Couples begin to gravitate toward each other, bodies angling inward, anticipation humming just beneath the music.

The masquerade is about to shift from spectacle to intimacy, and everyone can feel it.

I stay still.

Stillness draws attention in a room full of motion.

I position myself where the sight lines converge, close enough to be unavoidable without appearing intentional. I let my weight settle into one hip, let the red silk skim my long legs when I move. I don’t fidget. I don’t search the crowd for someone I might know.

I wait.

Jason and Faith drift closer as the countdown begins, pulled in by gravity and tradition. He slips an arm around her, possessive without realizing it. She tilts her head up toward him, trusting, radiant. They look like a future that everyone already accepts.

It sickens me.

He was mine. Now, he’s hers. My own sister. The betrayal burns, fuel for my fire.

Across the room, Damian Baylock stands apart from the gathering clusters, his glass untouched. He’s watching the room the way men like him always do—his tedium plain on his face until he glances my way. I feel the weight of his attention now without needing mirrors or reflections.

This time, I meet his eyes.

He doesn’t look away.

The clock begins its countdown. Ten. Nine. The room swells with noise, laughter rising, voices overlapping. Eight. Seven. Confetti cannons are readied. Six. Five.

Damian lifts his glass slightly—not a toast, not an invitation. An acknowledgment.

I return it with the faintest tilt of my chin.

Four. Three.

Jason kisses Faith just before the crowd surges, as if to prove something. She laughs against his mouth, unaware that she’s already standing on fault lines.

Two. One.

Midnight.

The room explodes into cheers. Masks shift. Couples kiss. Strangers embrace. The moment fractures into a hundred private celebrations. I stay exactly where I am. The noise crests and begins to fade, and Damian turns away first when someone accosts him.

The seed is planted.

On the terrace, the cold slaps my skin awake. A light snow drifts lazily beyond the stone railing, quiet and untouched. I press my palms against the cold and breathe. My reflection in the glass doors looks calm. Collected.

Inside, I see Damian again, closer now, his attention angled toward the space I vacated. He looks around. For me? Perhaps.

He can be the hunter. I am the prey that wants to be caught.

I stay outside just long enough to be missed, then slip back inside through a different door. The house accommodates this easily, like it’s designed for wicked games. I pass Jason once more, close enough that his hand tightens around Faith’s waist.

He knows something is wrong. He just doesn’t know what.