Chastity
The car glided over smooth asphalt, headlights cutting through the early December darkness. Outside, mansions passed like lit stages—Colonial facades, wrought-iron gates, perfectly manicured hedges dusted with yesterday's snow.
I smoothed the fabric of my dress for the third time in as many minutes. The silk whispered under my palms, cool and expensive. My reflection wavered in the window: hair swept back, makeup subtle but deliberate, the kind of polished my mother had coached me through that afternoon.
Confidence is half of perception.
Dad sat beside me in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting his cufflinks with practiced precision. His cologne filled the space between us—sandalwood and leather, the scent of board rooms and handshakes and deals closed over single malt scotch.
He looked comfortable. Powerful. In his element.
I felt like I was playing dress-up.
"You okay?" His voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
"Yeah." I forced brightness into the word. "Just nervous."
"Don't be." He glanced over, and something in his expression softened—the CEO mask slipping just enough to reveal my father underneath. "You look beautiful."
Warmth bloomed in my chest. I smiled, and this time it reached my eyes. "Thanks, Dad."
He returned his attention to the road, and I watched his profile—strong jaw, salt-and-pepper stubble he'd trimmed precisely, the faint lines around his eyes that only appeared when he smiled.
I wanted to make him proud.
"Tonight's important," he said, and the warmth shifted into something sharper. Business mode. "A lot of key investors will be here. People who matter."
"I know."
"Optics matter." His fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. "Everything needs to be perfect."
That word again.
Perfect.
I heard it constantly now—from my mother, from my professors, from the voice in my own head that catalogued every misstep, every hesitation, every moment I fell short of the standard expected of a Harrington.
"Stay close to me at first," Dad continued. "Let me make the introductions. Then you can mingle on your own. Show them you're capable. Poised."
I nodded, smoothing my dress again.
"And remember—these people are reading you constantly. Your posture, your handshake, how you hold your champagne glass." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're not just my daughter tonight. You're the future of the company."
The weight of it settled across my shoulders like the pashmina I'd left folded on my bed.
"I won't let you down."
"I know you won't."
We turned through iron gates that opened automatically, recognition sensors reading the vehicle. The estate sprawled before us—brick and limestone, lit from below with golden floodlights that turned the facade into something from a fairy tale.
Valets in black ties directed traffic. Women in furs and jewels stepped from town cars. Masks glittered under the entrance lights—feathers and crystals and Venetian lace.
Dad pulled to a stop, and a valet opened my door before I could reach for the handle.
I stepped out into the cold.
Behind me, my father's hand settled on the small of my back. "Ready?"
I looked up at the mansion, at the masks, at the performance waiting inside. "Ready."
The entrance hall swallowed us whole.
Velvet drapes the color of oxblood pooled from twenty-foot ceilings, their weight pulling the space into something darker, older, more theatrical than the estate's exterior promised. Chandeliers dripped crystal overhead, refracting candlelight into scattered diamonds across marble floors.
Masks turned toward us as we entered. Feathers. Lace. Gold leaf. Some covered only eyes—provocative, revealing. Others concealed entire faces behind porcelain and paint, transforming guests into characters I couldn't read.
A string quartet occupied the corner nearest the grand staircase, their music winding through conversation like smoke. Vivaldi, maybe. Something baroque and precise.
Dad's hand remained at the small of my back—firm, proprietary, guiding.
People watched. I felt their gazes track our movement across the entrance toward the main ballroom.
A woman in emerald silk leaned toward her companion, lips barely moving behind her mask. The murmur reached me anyway.
"That's Harrington's daughter."
My spine straightened automatically.
The mask I wore—midnight blue, delicate beading along the edges—suddenly felt like armor and exposure at once. It hid my face, yes. Concealed the flush climbing my neck. Protected me from direct scrutiny.
But it also marked me as someone worth looking at. Worth evaluating. Worth discussing in those half-whispered asides that pretended to be discreet.
We moved deeper into the ballroom.
Hockey players stood in clusters near the bar, shoulders too broad for their tailored tuxedos, movements still carrying that coiled athleticism even in formal wear. Their masks looked almost comical—predators playing at civility.
One caught my eye through his half-mask and lifted his champagne glass in acknowledgment.
I looked away.
Donors circulated with practiced ease, smiles visible beneath their disguises. Handshakes. Air kisses. The choreography of wealth performing for itself.
Dad's hand pressed slightly more firmly against my back. "Senator Morrison, three o'clock," he murmured. "Smile."
I smiled.
A server passed with champagne. Crystal caught the light, golden bubbles rising like tiny prayers.
The velvet drapes absorbed sound, making even laughter feel muted. Contained. Everything here existed inside glass—beautiful, fragile, perfectly controlled.
I smoothed my dress again and stepped forward into the performance.
Dad moved through the crowd with the ease of a man who'd spent decades working rooms like this. Handshakes flowed seamlessly into introductions, introductions into brief exchanges that somehow conveyed both warmth and authority in under thirty seconds.
I followed in his wake, a satellite in orbit.
"Richard." Dad's voice shifted into that particular register—friendly but commanding. "Good to see you."
A silver-haired man in an obsidian mask turned, hand already extended. They clasped forearms like old warriors.
"Harrington. Hell of an event."
"Always is." Dad's hand found my elbow, drawing me forward. "This is my daughter, Chastity. She'll be stepping into a leadership role next quarter."
I extended my hand. Richard's grip was firm, assessing.
"Impressive credentials," he said, though nothing in his tone suggested he'd actually reviewed them. "Your father speaks highly of you."
"I'm grateful for the opportunity." The words came automatically, rehearsed. Smooth.
Richard's eyes—visible through his mask—flicked between us. Reading something. "Family business," he mused. "There's something to be said for that kind of continuity."
Dad's smile widened a fraction. "We believe in legacy."
We moved on.
A woman in silver—Diane Something, CFO of a venture capital firm. Her handshake was brief, professional, dismissive.
"Charming," she said, already looking past me toward someone more important.
Another investor. Another board member. A consultant whose name I immediately forgot.
Each time, the same script:
This is my daughter.
Leadership role.
Next quarter.
I smiled until my cheeks ached beneath the mask.
Near the bar, Dad steered me toward a cluster of suits. The man at the center wore wire-rimmed glasses beneath his mask, his posture radiating corporate precision.
"James Keller," Dad said. "VP of Operations for Vitality Sphere."
Keller's handshake was measured. "Ms. Harrington. Your father tells me you're passionate about community impact initiatives."
"I am." I kept my voice steady. "I believe corporate responsibility extends beyond profit margins."
"Well said." He gestured toward the room. "Our CEO shares that philosophy. Unfortunately, she couldn't make it tonight—prior engagement—but I'm sure you'll meet soon enough."
Dad's expression remained pleasant. Controlled. But his fingers tightened fractionally on my elbow.
I felt the pressure like a warning I couldn't interpret.
"I look forward to it," I said.
Keller nodded, already turning toward the bar. Dismissed.
We drifted back toward the main floor. The quartet had shifted into something darker, minor chords threading through the conversation.
An older gentleman intercepted us—grey mask, expensive watch, predatory smile. "Harrington."
"Marcus." Dad's voice cooled several degrees. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Wouldn't miss it." Marcus's gaze settled on me, lingering. "Your daughter?"
"Chastity. She'll be—"
"—stepping into leadership. Yes, I've heard." Marcus's smile sharpened. "Family stability is everything in a transition like this."
The words hung between us.
Dad's grip on my elbow went rigid. Not painful. Just... present. Deliberate.
"We're very stable," Dad said quietly.
Marcus raised his glass. "Of course you are."
He walked away, and Dad's hand remained locked on my arm for three beats too long before releasing.
I glanced up at him, questions forming. But his expression had already smoothed into practiced neutrality.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
The quartet's next piece began as two players emerged from the crowd, tuxedos tailored to frame shoulders built for violence. Their masks hung loose around their necks—afterthoughts they'd clearly pulled on only at the entrance.
Recognition flickered. I'd seen their faces on highlight reels, sports segments Dad watched over breakfast.
The taller one—dark hair, easy smile—arrived first. "Didn't know Harrison’s daughter was this dangerous."
Heat crept up my neck. I laughed, but the sound came out too bright. Performative.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"That dress." His grin widened. "Definitely a penalty."
The second player—blond, broader—leaned against a nearby column with calculated casualness. His gaze traveled from my shoes to my collarbone with the kind of assessment that made my skin prickle.
"Careful, Harrington. We might have to sign you."