Chapter 534: Under the Mask

In the dimming twilight of District 16, the weekend had just begun to embrace the night. The streets, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, buzzed with the promise of nocturnal adventures. Martin, Mene, and Ellen Page, a trio bound by a shared sense of thrill, departed from their hotel in a sleek car, its engine purring in anticipation.

Mene, with a mischievous glint in his eye, turned to Ellen, his voice tinged with surprise. "We're here to pick up girls, aren't we?"

Ellen, her long hair elegantly tied into a bun, and clad in a sharply tailored black suit that accentuated her confident stance, replied with a playful smirk, "I'm certainly here to pick up girls."

Mene's eyes widened in disbelief. "You? But—"

Unfazed, Ellen nodded firmly. "Why can't women pick up girls? Who made that rule?"

Mene chuckled, his tone light yet laced with a hint of irony. "What a waste! A shameful waste!" He sighed dramatically, raising two fingers. "You're letting two potential catches slip away at once, Ellen."

Ellen retorted with a teasing edge, "So, which one do you prefer? Be careful, I might just snatch her away."

Mene shook his head, his confidence unwavering. "That's impossible. No one, not even the boss, can outdo me in this game."

Ellen glanced at Martin, her expression a mix of amusement and inquiry. "Is he always this boastful?"

Martin, accepting his place in the pecking order, replied with a rueful smile, "No, he's not just boasting. I truly can't compete with Mene when it comes to charm."

Ellen's eyes danced with confusion, intrigued by this revelation.

Meanwhile, Bruce, their designated driver, steered the car towards the opulent villa district nestled on the west side of Boulogne Forest Park. They approached a grand villa, its presence exuding an air of exclusivity and mystery.

Isabelle Huppert, a veteran of the film industry with a reputation as grand as her wealth, owned the villa.

Upon arriving, the four disembarked and approached the villa's entrance, where suited guards scrutinized their invitations. After a brief moment, the guards handed them ornate golden masks, leaving their mouths exposed. They instructed, "Please keep your masks on until you leave."

The masked party lived up to its name, shrouded in an aura of intrigue.

Martin, embracing the spirit of the evening, donned his mask but casually discarded his suit jacket to Bruce. He loosened another button on his fitted white shirt, which sculpted his athletic build, adding a raw edge to his otherwise polished demeanor.

In the villa's courtyard, masked men and women mingled, their identities hidden, adding to the night's enigma. Ellen Page, spotting a petite woman in a striking red dress, declared her intention to go solo.

Martin, with a nonchalant wave, entered the grand hall with Mene. The space was alive with guests, the women adorned in figure-hugging dresses and masks, while the men varied from robust to slender, some bearing the marks of age.

As a woman in a sultry suspender skirt passed by, Mene's gaze instinctively followed. "Boss, I must pursue," he declared to Martin, who was still scanning the crowd for his own interest.

Bruce, intrigued, asked, "Do you know her?"

Mene, with a hint of pride, responded, "I've photographed her extensively at Cannes. Those images, especially the revealing ones, are etched in my memory. I'd recognize her anywhere."

He clenched his fist, excitement in his voice. "That's Sophie Marceau."

Martin, overhearing, offered a supportive nod. "Good luck, old man."

With that, Mene hurried off, eager to seize the moment in the enigmatic world they had entered.

Perhaps Mene indeed possessed a unique charm that appealed to older ladies. As Martin's gaze meandered through the opulent hall, it returned to find Mene already deep in animated conversation with the lady in the suspender skirt. The air was electric with the hum of intriguing dialogues, each masked attendee a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

Nearby, a woman in a black and white floral skirt caught sight of Martin. Her eyes lingered on the subtle contours of muscle under his shirt, a faint hint of intrigue in her gaze. With purposeful strides, she approached Martin and, in fluent French tinged with a hint of allure, invited, "Would you care to join me for a drink?"

Martin, his understanding of French limited yet sufficient, hesitated. Masked parties were akin to opening a blind box – a dance of anonymity and discovery.

He detected the distinct scent of Chanel No. 5, recalling how Leonardo and Nicholson, those connoisseurs of fragrance, had once mentioned that women fond of this perfume often possessed a certain maturity and poise. Politely, with a gentle incline of his head, Martin declined, "I appreciate the offer, madam, but I'm not drinking at the moment."

The mask concealed any flicker of disappointment. The woman, undeterred, gracefully moved on to find another companion.

Martin continued to navigate the hall, his presence drawing several women to greet him, but he politely turned each away, his mind elsewhere.

Observing the crowd, he ruled out the possibility of Eva Green being among them tonight – her distinctive features not matching anyone present.

"Hi, buddy," a stranger's voice broke his train of thought. "Here alone?"

Martin offered a noncommittal shake of his head and excused himself, continuing his search.

The party at Huppert's villa was a melting pot of personalities and intentions. Not finding his intended target in the hall, Martin decided to explore the backyard.

Stepping outside, he noticed guests' attention riveted towards the balcony on the third floor. Two figures, masked like the others, engaged in a lively discussion about horse racing. The masks served not just to conceal identities but also to mask any signs of discomfort or shyness.

Seizing the moment while the crowd was distracted, Martin's gaze quickly swept the area, landing on a woman emerging from a side door. She stood about 1.7 meters tall, her long brown hair cascading down her back, partially hidden by a golden mask. Her blue skirt was elegantly lifted at the front and back, revealing a glimpse of graceful legs.

Approaching her, Martin estimated her to be around twenty-five, judging by her fair and delicate skin. As their eyes met, the woman's body language hinted at a mutual interest, despite her mask concealing any facial expression.

Martin recalled his knowledge of "Paris" and its cast. Eva Green, with her brown hair and distinctive height, was around 26 or 27...

He accepted two glasses of wine from a passing waiter and approached the woman, extending one to her. "May I offer you a drink?"

She accepted the glass, their fingers brushing briefly. They clinked glasses and each took a sip.

Following the party's unspoken etiquette, Martin refrained from asking her name unless she agreed to leave with him. He ventured in English, "Do you speak English?"

"Of course," she replied with a light smile, her voice revealing a practiced fluency. "Though I'm French, I've specialized in American English."

Suddenly, a bizarre cry echoed from another balcony. Both Martin and the woman turned to see a figure in a red dress, her hands pressed against the railing, a golden mask just visible behind her.

This commotion seemed to ignite a chain reaction, with adjacent balcony occupants joining in the outburst.

Masks indeed bestowed a daring boldness upon the wearers.

Spotting a secluded pair of seats by the swimming pool, Martin gestured invitingly, "Shall we sit and enjoy the spectacle?"

The woman gracefully took his arm, remarking, "This party truly is extraordinary."

Settling into the two-person seat by the pool, Martin tentatively extended his arm, gauging her reaction. Finding no resistance, he draped it around her shoulders, creating a shared space as they turned their attention to the unfolding drama, enveloped by the night's enigmatic allure.

As the woman leaned against Martin, she seemed to sense the strength in his muscles. In a bold, yet playful gesture, she extended her hand, tracing the contours of his well-defined abdominal muscles.

Martin, for his part, observed keenly, his seasoned experience allowing him to discern the authenticity of her form.

Meanwhile, on the third floor opposite them, a dramatic scene unfolded with six actors, each delivering a captivating performance. The spectacle drew guests away from the backyard, some venturing into the villa, perhaps to the upper floors, while others chose to leave the party altogether.

In this masquerade, where masks not only concealed identities but also guarded against potential embarrassment, the allure of the unknown was palpable. Most attendees respected the unspoken rule of the evening: masks were to remain on, preserving the mystery of each guest's identity.

Martin, savoring the evening's theatrics, couldn't help but admire the host. "Huppert truly is France's foremost literary goddess. Her party is a masterpiece of creativity and artistic flair."

The woman, resting comfortably against him, responded with an air of self-assuredness, "Perhaps in a decade or so, I'll eclipse Huppert as France's leading actress."

Martin turned towards her, seeing only the confidence shining in her eyes behind the golden mask.

In such an artistic ambiance, they leaned in closer, drawn together by a mutual attraction. However, as they attempted to kiss, a soft collision of their masks' noses interrupted the moment.

Martin, smiling behind his mask, suggested, "Shall we find a more private spot?"

The woman nodded, her eyes glinting with intrigue. "Inside the villa, or perhaps the balcony?"

Preferring privacy, Martin proposed, "Why don't we step outside, find a secluded place?"

As they stood, the woman's voice was playful yet curious, "Are you eager to discover who I am?"

Martin responded with a question of his own, "Aren't you curious about who I am?"

She laughed lightly. "I have my guesses, but speculating here doesn't seem right. We're all bound by the party's rules, after all."

Martin had an idea. "How about we step outside for a bit, write down our guesses, and reveal them once the masks come off?"

The woman found the idea intriguing. "And the one who guesses right takes the lead?"

Martin, confident in his perceptive abilities, agreed, "No problem."

Hand in hand, they left the backyard, passing through the vestibule to the exit.

Outside, Martin spotted Bruce preparing the car. Borrowing a pen from the security guard, he suggested, "Shall we write on the palm of our hands?"

The woman wrote something on her hand, then passed the pen to Martin, who also penned a name on his palm.

After returning the pen and waiting briefly, Bruce pulled up in a sleek black car. Martin opened the door, inviting, "Let's get in."

Once inside, Bruce raised the divider between the front and rear seats, ensuring their privacy.

Martin smiled, the anticipation palpable. "Let the game begin."

The woman closed her eyes briefly, as if making a wish, then reopened them with a playful challenge, "Ladies first, sir. Please, remove your mask."

Martin complied, revealing his face.

The moment she saw him, her expression lit up with recognition. "It's really you! Huppert wasn't kidding. She actually invited Martin Davis to the masked party!"

She showed her palm, Martin's name written clearly on it.

Martin feigned dismay. "So easily seen through."

"Now for my reveal," the woman declared, removing her mask.

Her face was somewhat familiar to Martin, though he couldn't immediately place her. Definitely not Eva Green.

"Don't you recognize me?" she asked, standing confidently. "I am Léa Seydoux, the actress."