Masked encounter

Scarlett stepped out of a sleek black car, her heels clicking against the cobblestones driveway.

She held out her keys and the valet, a nervous looking young man immediately scrambled forward, taking them from her hand.

"Take care of her," she said coolly.

He nodded nervously, his hands trembling as he held the keys tighter. "Enjoy your evening Miss."

She didn't respond, simply nodding as she turned to the entrance.

Tonight was Bellagio's private casino annual club night.

A private gala night for the rich meant for unwinding. It was a very exclusive party and to keep the even keep the identity of everyone a secret, all the guests were expected to wear masks.

She was here because according to her sources, her target, Killian, would also be attending, apparently he had a 'soft spot' for these kinds of events.

How typical.

She just wanted to access him from afar first before their official meeting tomorrow. It was necessary to know the terrain before the battle.

She smirked faintly, her long red dress hugging every curve as she ascended the wide marble steps leading to the grand entrance. The slit in her dress swayed with each step, revealing just enough of her toned thigh to leave imaginations running wild.

At the door, she adjusted her mask—a delicate creation of black and gold filigree that hugged her face, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and full red. The faintest smirk tugged at her lips as she pushed through the doors.

The gala was already in full swing.

The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and cigarette smoke. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, casting rainbow colors across the polished marble floors, while the steady hum of slot machines mingled with the low murmur conversations.

Men and women moved through the room, their faces covered by masks of gold, black, and silver. The masquerade was an annual affair for Las Vegas's elite, a chance to gamble without judgment and indulge in secrets that thrived in the anonymity of the night.

The moment she stepped in, she immediately felt the weight of a hundred eyes turn toward her.

"Who is that?"

"Never seen her before. Must be new money."

"She looks dangerous."

"Just what I was thinking. She doesn't look like someone you mess with."

"Well if you think about it, which of us is?"

Scarlett didn't need to look to know the effect she had; she could feel it. Her mere presence always demanded attention, her aura radiating power and danger.

Ignoring the stares, she cat walked her way to the bar, her heels clicking a rhythmic beat against the polished marble floor.

She held her head high, her lips curved into a faint smirk.

She slid onto one of the high-backed stools, crossing her legs effortlessly.

"Martinez," she said to the bartender.

He nodded, turning to prepare her drink.

Leaning her elbow on the counter, her gaze flicked over the room.

Men in tailored suits, women in flowing gowns-each face hidden behind a mask. They were all peacocks, preening for attention, desperate to outshine each other.

It was pathetic, really.

"Martinez? Make that two," a deep voice suddenly said from behind her, cutting through her thoughts like a blade.

Scarlett turned her head slowly, her dark eyes narrowing as they landed on a man who had slipped into the seat beside her.

He was tall, his broad shoulders filling out a black suit that clung to him like sin. His mask was unlike the others—a strange design of interwoven black metal and silver edges.

But it wasn't the mask that caught her attention.

It was his eyes.

One was black, dark and endless, like the abyss of a moonless night. Yeah, pretty normal, right?

But no, nothing about it was normal, because the other one was red, vivid and burning, like fire caught in a storm, swirling with an intensity that seemed almost alive.

She had seen people with heterochromia before but this... this was different

Her breath immediately hitched, her carefully curated composure slipping for the briefest moment.

She felt an inexplicable pull, like his eyes weren't just looking at her—they were unraveling her. The black one was cold, detached, calculating. The red one? It burned, as if it could see right through her and wasn't afraid of what it found.

For the first time in years, she felt...off-balance.

"Fascinated?" he asked, his voice cutting through her thoughts, again.

Scarlett's lips curved into a smirk, recovering quickly. "Hardly."

His lips quirked upward. "Liar."

She turned fully toward him, resting her chin on her hand. "I don't think we've been introduced."

"Wouldn't you rather guess who I am?"

"Guessing games aren't my style."

"Pity. They're mine," he said, leaning back slightly.

The bartender returned, placing the Martinez in front of her.

Scarlett reached for the glass, her fingers brushing the stem as she held his gaze.

"So, what's your style?" he asked, his red eye glinting under the chandelier light.

"Ruining the nights of men who think they're clever," Scarlett replied, taking a slow sip of her drink.

He chuckled softly. "Then I must be in trouble."

"You will be."

The tension between them simmered, the air growing heavier as they studied each other.

"What brings you here?" he asked finally.

"Same thing that brings everyone. A distraction."

His lips curved into a faint smirk. "And have you found one yet?"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Maybe."

He didn't move back. He wasn't intimidated by her gaze.

If anything, he leaned in further, his black-and-red eyes locked on hers.

"I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Prove to me you're worth the distraction, and I might show you something...better."

Scarlett arched an eyebrow. "And how exactly do you propose I prove myself?"

He glanced at the bartender. "Two glasses of the strongest bourbon you've got. Make it double."

The man hesitated but nodded, moving quickly to fulfill the order.

"You think a drinking contest is going to impress me?" Scarlett asked mockingly.

"I think it's going to prove whether or not you can keep up," he replied smoothly.

Scarlett smirked, picking up the glass as soon as it was placed before her. "Oh, darling, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

They clinked glasses, and Scarlett immediately downed hers in one go, the liquid burning its way down her throat.

He followed suit, setting his glass down with a sharp clink.

"Not bad," he said, his tone teasing. "But can you keep going?"

Scarlett's smirk widened. "Try me."

By the fifth round, a small crowd had gathered, buzzing around the bar like flies.

"This is too slow," she suddenly slammed her hand on the counter. "Twenty glasses of Absinthe Noir,"

The bartender froze, blinking in disbelief. "Twenty?"

"Did I stutter?"

The bartender looked to the man for confirmation, who gave a subtle nod.

He then turned back to Scarlett, hesitating. "Are you sure about this?"

She tilted her head. "Do you know the one thing you should never do?"

"What?"

"Underestimate me."

Moments later, the bartender finished arranging the glasses in neat rows.

The man reached for the first glass, but Scarlett's hand shot out, stopping him.

"I've got this."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't tell me you actually..." His words trailed off as Scarlett grabbed two glasses and downed them in rapid succession.

She didn't stop there. One by one, she drained each glasses as if it was water, leaving the crowd stunned.

Mouths gaped, the bartender froze mid-motion, and even the man's ever-confident smirk faltered as she emptied glass after glass in under two minutes.

When the last glass hit the counter with a sharp clink, silence settled over the room.

The man blinked, his expression a mixture of surprise and admiration. "Impressive," he finally said, standing to his full height.

Scarlett smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I told you, never under..."

Before she could finish, he moved.

His hand cupped her jaw, his lips capturing hers in a heated kiss.

Scarlett's first instinct was to shove him away, to break the contact and deliver a scathing remark or a maybe even a blow or. But the moment his lips met hers, something inside her shifted.

It wasn't irritation. And it wasn't disgust.

It was...desire.

The realization hit her like a tidal wave, fierce and overwhelming.

Her mind screamed that it was impossible. She had been diagnosed as sexually dysfunctional at eighteen, sexual anesthesia they called it, a result of her trauma.

She shouldn't feel anything. She couldn't.

And yet, here she was, her pulse quickening, her body leaning into his without thought.

He pulled back after a moment, leaving her breathless and shaken.

She almost groaned at the loss, her hand shooting out to grab his before she could think of anything.

"Let's go somewhere more private."

Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel, dragging him toward the exit, leaving the crowd stunned at the sudden turn of events.