Chapter 9 Iris
IRIS
I have Reggie’s blessing to pick whatever piece I want from his racks in what he calls his Brooklyn “Preview Room.” It’s really just a repurposed guest bedroom in the apartment.
Which sounds fun in theory.
In practice, it means standing in their midst as Reggie’s gowns close in. Sequins, satin, organza, and a wash of “Wear me, darling” persuasion.
A silver gown stares at me next, but I wag a finger at it. “You’re gorgeous, but you’ll shed glitter like a divorce party.” Then, a crimson mermaid dress tries to tempt me with its slit. “Stunning,” I say to no one. “But the moment I need to pivot quickly, this thing will hold me hostage.”
Eventually, buried between the ballroom gowns and architectural silhouettes, I find something meant for a completely different nightlife ecosystem—an ivory bodycon dress, knee-length, shimmering just enough under the studio lights.
“Perfect,” I tell it. “You’re ambitious without threatening to eat me alive.”
I slip it on, and the dress fits without argument. To finish the look, I curl my hair into loose, glossy waves and sweep on makeup that says I made an effort, but not too much.
I drive around the Hudson Valley and cross to the side where houses don’t just sit on land; they occupy it with something commissioned rather than purchased.
My headlights sweep across facades where windows stretch, more often than not designed less for the view than for how the glass complements whatever painting hangs opposite.
I can’t help picturing them. Maybe an oversized minimalist piece someone bought at auction because their consultant promised it would “start conversations.”
Mansion after mansion sits in near-darkness.
Where are the valets? Or at least a flicker of party lights?
One estate finally shows signs of life. Cars are lined neatly, music drifting out.
Then I spot the champagne tower by the door, the string lights wrapped around the mailbox, and the oversized ENGAGED sign catching the glow from inside.
“Definitely not that one,” I mutter.
I keep driving.
Past the bridge, a Rolls-Royce glides across my windshield and turns into a stone gate flanked by hedges tall enough to hide a scandal. I slow down instinctively, my heart tapping, then again, louder.
From my car, I follow the Rolls-Royce into the courtyard with my gaze.
A man in tailored black approaches the rear door.
Covering his eyes is a pair of lenses dark enough that I genuinely can’t tell whether they’re sunglasses or tactical equipment.
He opens the door, and a couple steps out of the car.
They’re masked.
And not the flimsy kind you grab for a themed party either. These masks are sculpted and contoured to the face.
My pulse kicks. Hello, Illuminati’s sexier cousin.
When another set of headlights appears behind me, I pull away before I look like a woman loitering with intent. I find a spot down the hill and park discreetly. Then I walk back toward the gate and stop behind a break in the hedge. From there, I have the perfect vantage point.
And oh.
People are arriving in a steady flow. Every single one of them is masked, every outfit expensive, but not all in the same language.
Some guests lean toward classic black-tie, others toward silhouettes that look intentionally mischievous.
The atmosphere is charged and decadent, set by an invitation you can feel more than see.
Valets in identical black attire and tinted lenses greet each arrival with a single nod. Beyond them, staff raise scanners and sweep them just above each guest’s elbow.
A secret mark.
Faking it would be ridiculous since I don’t know what symbol they’re looking for, what code would flash, and what would give me away before the night even begins.
I should just admit I don’t have it.
Except there are two things that get you booted when you’re uninvited.
You don’t look like you’re contributing to the party.
Or you’re contributing too much.
I glance down at myself.
Reggie would be proud of what I’ve managed here, the whole “I belong somewhere expensive” aesthetic. It would be perfect for an event downtown. Maybe a launch party at a trendy bar where the furniture is uncomfortable on purpose.
But this?
This masquerade is something else entirely.
For one, I’m unmasked. And this dress…well, it’s the wrong kind of sexy. The obvious kind. The safe kind.
And I know, in that moment, with a certainty that crawls deliciously down my spine, if I walk in dressed like this and wearing some emergency mask from a corner party shop, they’ll spot me instantly as someone who doesn’t understand the rules.
Not yet.
I don’t bother pretending I’m calm when I get back to my Brooklyn apartment. My heels clatter on the hardwood, and I head straight for Reggie’s off-limits Atelier Noir, formerly the home office, now a forbidden sanctum of audacious ideas and beloved designs in constant revision.
“I’ll apologize later,” I decide as I grip the doorknob. Part of the dare, right? Illuminati’s sexier cousin requires another break-in. In Brooklyn this time.
The door clicks open.
“Shit!” I curse.
Miss Astrid is right there.
I jerk back a fraction.
She stands just inside the room, angled slightly toward the door, all cheekbones and editorial posture.
Avant-garde, of course. She has a long neck, a severe jaw, and a face built for structure and drama.
Reggie insists she looks like me. He has said it more than once, with conviction. But she does not. Not even a little.
Still, the way the light hits her makes it feel like she’s watching me.
I refuse to engage. I am not acknowledging a mannequin.
“Don’t,” I mutter, stepping past her.
Even in the dim light, the room carries Reggie’s talent in every corner. Bolts of fabric lean against the wall, secondary mannequins draped in silk and chiffon stand scattered around the room, and lace spills across a table invitingly.
“Okay, Iris,” I murmur. “Find something that won’t get you excommunicated from this friendship.”
Miss Astrid remains in my peripheral vision as I sift through Reggie’s creations. They’d photograph beautifully, but they wouldn’t hold up behind that Hudson Valley gate. These are runway gowns, not ritual wear.
And then I see it.
A lacy, raven-black dress with a fitted bodice, delicate straps, and a hem that promises trouble.
Dark, seductive, unapologetic. The kind of dress Katherine Pierce, vampire, villainess, fashion icon, and walking masterclass in looking dangerous on purpose, would wear if she were attending a masquerade ball instead of terrorizing Mystic Falls.
I slip out of the champagne dress and into the black lace. The fabric hugs my body differently, more daring, more assured. The neckline dips just enough, and the skirt traces the line of my thighs in a way that belongs in mood lighting.
“Black stilettos…come on, where are you…” I scan the shoe racks on the other side of the room and find a perfect pair. “Yes!”
Now, all that’s left is a mask.
I close my eyes, searching Reggie’s catalogue in my mind.
I finally recall his W magazine editorial: “Obscured Beauty.” There’s a series of sculptural masks, lace lattices, and metallic pieces meant to turn faces into stories.
“Please, please, please be here,” I whisper, diving straight into the accessories shelves where boxes pile up in satin cases and velvet-lined trays.
“Too soft…too architectural…too birdlike…” I mumble.
And then—
Oh.
There it is.
A lacy black mask shaped in delicate curves, with filigree wings framing the outer edges, the tiny black crystals glinting. The eye cutouts tilt upward, giving a sultry, foxlike silhouette. It is villainous energy distilled into a masquerade accessory.
I hold my breath as I tie it on. The silk ribbon cinches behind my head, and the mask settles against my face with a whisper of cool lace.
When I lift my chin toward the mirror, I don’t recognize myself.
I look like someone who shouldn’t be questioned at the door. Someone ready to let this whole forbidden world stain her imagination.
I hurry to my room with the loot. My earlier curls are fighting me, so I take a straightener to them until they fall into a smooth, glossy curtain. Next comes a scarlet lipstick, a simple necklace, and a slim stack of bracelets.
I check the mirror again. The woman looking back isn’t dressed for a martini.
She’s an artist who courts trouble for the sake of creation.
With every mile toward the mansion, my nerves narrow into something electric. The house doesn’t have a name on the gate, no crest, no signage. Just a place that looks like the world’s wealthiest people decided privacy was the ultimate luxury.
Whatever this venue is, whatever happens behind those doors, it isn’t the sort of establishment where you play dumb at the entrance and hope the staff buys it.
Pretending I lost an invitation would insult them, and trying to argue my way in would expose me instantly.
Places like this don’t tolerate excuses; they remove them.
So my brain shifts tactics.
If a front door is too obvious, another one exists. Every house has a flaw. I just have to find it.
My chest lifts with a restless spark I haven’t felt in a long time, and my mind starts mapping possibilities before my feet even move.
I pull off the road near the bridge, easing the car into the narrow pocket between two sycamores. Then I fasten the black lace mask into place and step out, keeping low as I move toward the house.
The estate sits back from the road, lit just enough to be found by whoever is meant to find it.
I wait, making a minute adjustment to my footing and drawing a slow breath as my fingers rest against the rough bark beside me.
After a few minutes, the road murmurs with approaching engines as a small convoy rounds the bend. The first car, a sleek black sedan I can’t identify, advances with the ease of machinery built for people who dislike fuss. Its headlights sweep across my hiding place for a heartbeat before moving on.
The gate responds before the sedan even stops moving, opening in one smooth, silent arc.
I step deeper into the hedge’s silhouette as the second car crosses the boundary of the grounds. The third car lags just enough to create the smallest pocket of opportunity.
As soon as its taillights angle toward the gate, I move.
I slip into its wake, aligning myself with the dark seam between hedge and chassis.
The car becomes my moving blind spot, hiding me from anyone looking forward, and certainly from anyone luxuriating in the back seat.
People headed to places like this rarely bother to glance sideways.
They aim themselves like arrows toward the evening they’ve paid for.
The mansion rises before me, lit from within by golden light that shines through tall windows.
I veer off the driveway before I’m visible to the staff, circling the outer edge of the estate.
Somewhere along the perimeter, practicality must outrank theatrics.
Wealthy people like ventilation, wine cellars, and service paths.
I move silently, scanning for breaks in the architecture.
Then I spot movement.
Something skims my peripheral vision. It’s fast and certain. Instinct tightens my muscles, and I skate behind a pillar, my breath shallow, my attention narrowing.
When I look again, it’s gone.
I continue in the direction it disappeared, scanning the space in fluent passes—ahead, to the sides, above, and along the ground.
A break in the pattern catches my eye. It’s a low window, half-hidden by shrubs. The frame sits just above the soil, cracked open in the careless way of someone who assumed no one would ever look this closely.
“When there’s a will…” I whisper, “…there’s a way.”
The window is narrow, but the lace dress stretches with me. I slip one leg through, easing past the frame without sacrificing a single thread. Reggie is going to lose his mind when he hears about this!
My bracelets chime, which is not ideal, but it’s quiet enough. I angle myself sideways and slide the rest of the way in, landing on the floor lightly enough to impress even myself.
I’ve dropped into a cellar hallway. It’s dim, clean, and stocked with crates of wine and catering supplies. No one’s around.
That works.
Straight ahead, a stairwell leads upward. I follow it and emerge into a back corridor lined with marble. A closed door sits at the end. I press my ear to it. Nothing. So I turn the handle.
The world on the other side hits me as if I’ve crossed into a different frequency altogether.
Light spills from chandeliers, and guests glide through the lobby in gowns that move like smoke and suits cut with an ego to match. Masks—soft, hard, feathered, carved—transform every face into an artwork.
I school my posture.
I keep my chin steady and my steps smooth and purposeful.
A few guests glance my way, offering polite nods, the kind reserved for people who clearly belong.
And for the first time tonight, I feel like I do.
I walk toward the bar, claiming my space. A man in a black tux and a butterfly mask turns toward me.
“What may I offer you, Miss—” he asks.
I open my mouth to answer, “I. Miss I.”
And the night truly begins.