Chapter 3 #2
“Ah. That explains the mobster-baroque!” I pay with my father’s credit card. The driver chuckles.
Boyana shoots a confused glance between us, and for a moment, with her fake fangs, fire-engine lipstick, and cut-out leather dress, she really is a lost little vampire. “Mobster what?” And there’s another word about to join her big dictionary.
I shake my head and lean forward, ducking under the doorframe to avoid squishing my bunny ears.
Hopping from taxi to taxi in the July heat didn’t suit me, no matter how tempting it was to go wild with Dad’s credit card.
So I made my maid stitch the fluffy white tail onto a sleek black cocktail dress.
Even though her hands trembled because she couldn’t tell me who had emptied the contents of my trash can, the end result was satisfactory.
I slid the velvety ears over my loose hair, added a bit of evening makeup, and the end result hits just the right note—elegant, with a bit of edge. And, yes, technically in costume.
The path to the front entrance is lined with luxury cars—limousines, sports cars, and shiny SUVs.
Around them, a burst of costumes: feathered gowns, animal prints, sparkling fabrics, all vying to outshine the house itself.
Waiters weave through the guests with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
Photographers snap photos under the flash of strobes.
“Girls!” The twins cry in unison, tottering our way in heels, champagne glasses raised. Their colorful, airy gowns trail behind them, drowning in feathers and excess.
“Check her out! Total rock star!” Marie grabs my hand and spins me around. I give a small shake of my hips, just enough to show the silhouette. She grins. “Valentino, right? But babe, what’s with that tail?”
“An experiment.” I snatch a glass from a passing waiter. “It is a costume party, isn’t it?”
“Trust Nicole to ruin a five-grand dress with a tail from AliExpress!” Misha squeals. There’s a sugary smile on her face, but the acid underneath is unmistakable. Yet, she wouldn’t dare go further.
I toss my hair over one shoulder with a smirk. “And still, I look better than everyone else here.”
Boyana snorts behind her hand and points her index finger at the twins. “And what exactly are you dressed as? Wait, wait, I know! It’s that trend from the influencer, right? The girl who shows up at clubs dressed as a parrot…”
“We’re peacocks.” Marie sighs, exchanging a loaded look with her sister. “And we don’t follow trends, baby. We make them.”
Boyana shrugs. “I thought you were parrots. Must’ve misunderstood…”
“Shocker!” Misha twirls her skirt, lips pursed.
The twins chase trends as if it’s a job requirement, convinced that fame will follow if they just copy hard enough. But charisma can’t be faked, and that’s what they’ll always lack.
Even so, as I watch them hunch their shoulders, disappointed by their failed outfits, a brief wave of sentiment washes over me.
Sure, they’re loud, a bit fake… But my hyenas, nonetheless.
So I raise my glass to them. “You’re absolutely stunning, ladies.
Your dresses are delightfully eccentric.
I’m sure by tomorrow, all of Sofia will scramble to copy the style.
Well, at least those who can’t afford Valentino with a bunny tail. ”
The girls laugh, and the tension dissolves. Marie leans in a bit closer. “You won’t believe what Vanessa showed up as— ”
“An angel!” Misha blurts.
Images flash through my mind: Vanessa’s leaked sex tape from last year, the one that got her a spot on that reality show… and then, of course, her new sugar daddy.
“I assume you mean an on-call angel?”
“Nooo!” Boyana feigns sympathy. “She’s in a very monotonous relationship now.”
Marie gestures over her shoulder with a thumb. “Yes, with her sugar daddy. The man’s got taste. Or at least… she does have his taste on her lips. And tongue.”
Her sister waves dismissively. “Please. I doubt he can even get it up without a cocktail of pills.”
I tilt my head toward the towering Cupid statue in the center of the fountain. “Is it just me, or does this place scream new money extravagance?”
“I’ve been thinking that since the moment we walked in,” Misha doesn’t bother to lower her voice.
Boyana twirls a glossy strand of hair around one finger. “Okay, it’s a lot, I’ll give you that. But it’s flashy in a… fun way.”
I lift my champagne flute with a wry smile. “To good taste, then.”
“And to men who can actually get it up,” Boyana adds with a wicked grin, raising her glass high.
A few masked heads snap in our direction. We burst into laughter, and the clinking of our glasses punctuates the bold toast.
Facing the building, I let my gaze drift over its shimmering facade, like some baroque fever dream. “Shall we head inside? Maybe I’ll borrow a few design ideas for my next project.”
Marie sighs with theatrical dread. “Just promise me you won’t come back raving about the golden toilets.”
I chuckle as we pass through the heavy front doors. A vast foyer welcomes us. The ceiling glitters with chandeliers, the floor is black marble streaked with gold, and one of the walls is covered with mirrors, creating the illusion of endless space and luxury.
Boyana takes in the scene with wide-eyed admiration. “It is impressive, isn’t it? Everything’s screaming: Look at me!”
I loop my arm through hers and lean in to whisper, “Darling, if you have to scream it… It clearly isn’t working.”
Her thunderous laugh draws attention once again, including Vanessa Ivanov’s. The party host floats over to us in a sequined white dress and a pair of angel wings. We exchange the usual pleasantries while examining each other for flaws.
Her face is pretty enough, but her energy is pure prey— waiting to be caught and used however someone pleases. And, according to the rumors, plenty have done just that before she landed the right sugar daddy.
“You wouldn’t believe the drama,” Vanessa starts, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Two days ago, we had to knock down the bathroom walls. Can you imagine? The bathtubs wouldn’t fit! Italian marble. Special order from Milan.
“Tragic,” I murmur, sipping my champagne.
Oblivious to my sarcasm, she continues, “Muro put me in charge of the whole operation. I was so stressed, but I handled it.” She beams, as if she’s describing a major career achievement, not becoming someone’s glorified housekeeper.
A tight smile stretches my lips. I adore luxury—and I demand it—but I’d never collar myself just to get it.
I tune out Vanessa’s monologue and step slightly aside under the pretense of checking my phone.
Instead, I scan the crowd. Tonight, the animal nature of the guests feels more literal than ever, with ears, tails, patterns everywhere.
And yet, no one thought to come dressed as a sheep.
Curious, considering ninety percent of them move through life like herd animals.
Then again, I’m a lioness disguised as a harmless bunny.
I’m reaching for a second drink when it hits me. An abrupt, chilling awareness, similar to the other time at the nightclub. Invisible fingers slide beneath my skin, peeling away each layer with surgical precision.
The guests blur into faceless silhouettes.
Something is off.
I search for the anomaly.
Finally, I find it.
A tall man, half-shadowed by a marble column. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest, the black of his clothing almost indistinguishable from the darkness clinging to him. A wolf mask covers his entire head and neck—long and detailed, with saber-sharp teeth and eyeholes like voids.
The certainty that he’s watching me is so intense, it coils in my gut.
You’re imagining it, Nicole. He’s just standing there. It’s got nothing to do with you.
But why is his mask facing me?
I nearly drop my phone when it vibrates in my hand. Holding my breath, I glance at the screen. A new message. Relief washes over me as read it: Awake yet, birthday girl?
Branimir.
I cling to the chance to distract myself with him, breaking my own rule about waiting a few hours before replying to a guy. Now I am I hit send.
The three dots signaling he’s typing appear, followed by, Dinner tomorrow?
I smile at the screen. Sure. After a beat, I add: Pick me up at mine. 8 PM.
I send him my address and wait.
The phone buzzes again.
Looking forward to it. Then another message:
I lift my head from the screen, and my smile falters. The man is still there.
From my standpoint, I catch glimpses of him—the stretch of muscular arms beneath the sleeves of his black shirt, the dark shapes inked into his skin. Symbols, glyphs, maybe flowers… or barbed wire curling around flesh.
A strange urge builds inside me, a desire to get closer and see more.
But then my attention drifts back to the mask. Those black holes, where the eyes should be, burn across my skin, triggering only one instinct: run!
My phone buzzes again. I glance at it, expecting another message from Branimir.
It’s not him. The number is unknown.
I have to read and reread the message until the words sink in.
Did you solve my riddle, Harvest 290?
A cold wave washes over me. My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles turn white.
The air around me thickens, heavy with a scent that makes my stomach turn. It’s sweet and bitter, both mysterious and maddeningly familiar.
I lift my head toward the marble column where the masked man stood.
He’s gone.
The phone vibrates with another message, causing me to flinch. I look down, my heart pounding.
Or shall I call you Bunny?