Carlie Taylor doesn’t exist—not tonight.
Instead, I’m gonna shed her like a skin—leaving behind the woman fraught with self-doubt, obsessed over every curve, and prone to clumsy missteps. Of which there are many.
No, tonight, I am Zoey Cummings, a veritable sex goddess, armed with unshakeable confidence and a voracious appetite for adventure.
Zoey takes what she wants—from whoever she wants it.
No burdens to bear. No repercussions.
At least, that’s the plan.
Nestled in the familiar sanctuary of my car—just a whisper away from the venue, in fact—I retrieve the invite from my purse.
A shaky breath escapes my lips, and for a fleeting moment, I’m lost in the tactile dance of my fingers over the sumptuous dark paper—a detail I would have lingered on in one of my novels, painting the scene with words.
The gravity of the impending night makes my heart flutter as if I’m on the precipice of my own story’s pivotal scene.
I can only wish.
No—no thinking like that. Not tonight.
Shaking my head, I refocus on the invite.
The beautifully handwritten letters spell out ‘Zoey Cummings’—a pseudonym that promises a night of liberation if I can just get my head in the game—truly.
This invite is more than just paper and ink—it’s a golden ticket to an evening of seduction.
Hell, who am I kidding?
It’s a spell to forget, too.
Am I truly ready to be untethered to the past? To my stupid ex?
The wounds from him are still raw, his memory a lingering shadow in my mind and on my heart.
No, I need this.
I need to obliterate the ghost of him, even if just for one ephemeral night.
Such a great word, ephemeral. It’s really not used often enough,
Focus, Carlie—er, Zoey.
Fucksake.
With shakier hands than I care to admit, I turn the envelope over and gently pull out the card. Sparkly silver scrolling glistens on the black silky paper, and I read over the words once more, confirming the details that are already etched in my mind.
“Zoey, it is under the veil of night…” I whisper out loud, then fall into silence as I read on.
…that we invite you to an exclusive event, shrouded in mystery and desire within Club Nocté’s Upper Tier. The promise of an unforgettable experience fills the air, beckoning you. Can you feel it?
Elegance is your armor, a mask your shield. Indulge in fine cocktails and decadent treats, lose yourself to the experience, and let the night unveil who you truly are when the world isn’t watching.
The stage is set.
The night awaits.
All that’s left is to step into the shadows and acquiesce to the adventure.
The night calls.
And your evening awaits.
Club Nocté
I have to admit, the magic and mystery of this invite have done its job well. The copywriter should be paid a hefty bonus, or something.
Nocté wove an alluring spell, captivating the author in me in a way that hasn’t been summoned out for a while. Props and golfers claps, for sure.
When the original notification of my ‘exclusive membership’ arrived months ago, a mix of emotions swirled within me. More mortification than thrill, to be honest.
To be selected for this secretive club as a consolation for being cheated on was not how I envisioned diving back into the world of dating.
If anything, it felt like a slap in the face.
How Nocté had learned of his indiscretion, I’ll never know.
Yet, as I sit here, on the brink of an unknown encounter, the allure of escape and the promise of a mysterious night that I’ll never forget is incredibly enticing.
It’s been long enough.
Zoey Cummings is ready, even if Carlie Taylor is not.
Tonight, I choose the adventure.
Tonight, I choose to be Zoey.
Taking a deep breath, I open the car door, feeling the cool night air gently caress my skin. It’s a small, yet poignant, reminder that I’m about to step out of my comfort zone in a big way.
The sounds of the Superior at night surround me, a symphony of life that’s both daunting and exhilarating.
This city has a reputation for being seedy—or at the very least, the darker one of the Twin Ports. Something about that feels so good. Right.
I straighten my dress, a sleek emerald number that clings to my curves in all the right places—at least, I hope it does.
No, that’s a Carlie thought.
I banish it and button my long coat against the breeze.
Throwing my shoulders back, I adjust my mask—a delicate piece of dark green lace that hides just enough to make me feel mysterious. Zoey would wear this with pride and a mischievous glint in her eye.
My heels click against the pavement as I make my way toward the hidden back entrance of Club Nocté, the thumping bass from inside growing louder with each step.
My heart races, not just from the nerves but also from the sheer excitement of what might happen tonight.
As I approach the door, a blond, broad-shouldered bouncer checks my invite, his eyes lingering just a moment too long on the name written in elegant script.
“Enjoy your night, Zoey,” he says with a smirk, stepping aside to let me through.
“Thank you,” I respond, taking the invite back and slipping it into my purse.
I step past the dimly lit doorway and into a stairwell that leads to an upper level.
Quite literally, the Upper Tier.
The transition leading to the seductive ambiance of Club Nocté is momentarily disorienting, but the soft music now piped in through hidden speakers, and the lush foliage strategically placed along the path invite me to proceed.
Now I know why Alice did it …
This is like being invited into Wonderland.
The air is thick with anticipation by the time I reach the top landing. The soft murmur of conversation is punctuated by occasional laughter in the space beyond.
“May I take your coat?” the hostess asks, halting my progress.
I turn to her and smile. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Her bright blue eyes survey me and I shrug it off, feeling far more exposed.
“Your mask is beautiful,” she offers as she accepts my coat.
My fingertips trace the fabric and a smile floats to my lips. “ Thanks, I thought so.”
She tips her head before vanishing into the coat room behind her.
I take a moment to steel myself, letting my eyes adjust, as I take in my surroundings.
The club is even more lavish than I imagined—with rich, dark colors and plush velvet. The décor speaks of opulence and decadence, and a fresh thrill runs down my spine.
I’m at a—
“May I offer you a drink?” a server asks, appearing at my side with a tray of champagne flutes.
I nod, accepting a glass. “That would be lovely,” I say, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my stomach.
With the glass in hand, I venture further into the club, paying far more attention than I should on walking straight and not spilling the champagne all over some unsuspecting guest.
A little bit of Carlie is still with me, it seems.
The alluring sound of violins playing through the speakers guides me to a large dining area and the crowd grows. The room is a tableau of intrigue—characters in a scene I might have written if I were back home and actually sticking to my deadline.
Laughter and chatter fill the air, every one a protagonist in their own story, hidden behind masks of mystery. Some share knowing glances, like old friends or old rivals—details I’d note as an author to hint at stories untold.
That thought makes my insides flutter again.
I take a sip of the champagne, the bubbles tickling my nose as I let the atmosphere wash over me.
I’m here to forget, to let go, and to embrace the new adventure that awaits.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find something—or someone—that will make the night unforgettable.
With that thought in mind, I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and walk into the room.
“Miss Cummings?” another hostess inside asks when I enter the space.
“How’d—?” I ask, turning to her with my eyebrows drawn.
She smiles sweetly. “We’ve been given specific orders to know each of our guests so we can tailor the experience for you. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll bring you to your assigned seat.”
A hushed anticipation settles over the room as the lights dim, casting long, dancing shadows across the patterned walls. The flicker of candles becomes the heartbeat of the space, their warm glow softening the edges of masked faces and creating an intimate cocoon of secrecy and allure.
The transformation is swift but profound, and I feel the persona of Zoey enveloping me more fully, as if the dim light is a curtain, drawing closed and leaving Carlie firmly behind in the shadows.
The hostess, a vision of poise, really—guides me with a gentle hand on my elbow. She points to the an open seat at a small, intimate table and I slide into it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please,” she begins, her gaze sweeping across the room, ensuring she has captured the attention of every attendee. Her voice carries a weight of authority that commands attention, even as it remains soft and melodic. “Tonight, you are embarking on a journey of connection and discovery. In the spirit of trust and intimacy, you will spend the evening with the person—or in some case, persons—at your individual tables. We have taken great care in choosing your companions for the evening, seeking to create connections that extend beyond the superficial.”
A murmur of curiosity ripples through the room, and I feel a prickling of excitement—or is it apprehension?—at the base of my spine.
What if they chose poorly?
“As we serve the first course, we invite you to share an experience of vulnerability and care with your companions. You are not to feed yourselves, but instead, nourish the person beside you. Speak of your desires, your fears, your dreams—let the masks you wear be the only barriers between you tonight.”
The room falls into a hushed silence, the gravity of her words settling over us. A man slides into the seat opposite me and I can feel the intensity in his gaze as I turn, offering a small, tentative smile.
I don’t dare look too closely as I try to quell the butterflies in my stomach.
The hostess gives a nod as if to say ‘begin,’ and the servers move gracefully through the room, placing plates of exquisite food in front of us.
There are chocolate-covered strawberries, watermelon, and other finger foods I have no name for. The aroma is tantalizing, a symphony of flavors waiting to be explored.
The entire room breaks out into a hum of conversation as we each turn to our prospective companions and partners for the evening.
If I were writing this as a story, I’d make sure the man beside me was the exact opposite of the real me. He’d be gorgeous, fit, and adventurous in every way.
But this is no story …
My gaze drifts to him—a stranger cloaked in the anonymity of the night.
Who is he?
What stories lie behind those eyes of his?
Was the deceit that brought him here as difficult to overcome as it was for me?
The mystery entices me, and Zoey’s boldness surges, eager to uncover the secrets hidden by his mask.
I pick up a large strawberry, its chocolate coating melting into my fingertips.
“Well,” I start, my voice steady even though my heart has galloped away, “I suppose we should dive in.”
His eyes, a stormy gray, meet mine, and I sense a flicker of curiosity in their depths. The corner of his lips tilts upward in a half-smirk as if he’s both amused and intrigued by the situation as well.
Before he can speak, I extend my arm, the strawberry held between my fingers, and I can’t help but notice the slight quiver in my hand—a betrayal of my inner turmoil.
I swallow hard, my heart thrumming wildly with the vulnerability of this sensual act.
The strawberry hovers before his lips, and for a brief moment, time stands still. There’s a silent question in his gaze, an invitation to share more than just the sweetness of the fruit.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and gently press the strawberry to his lips.
He accepts it, his teeth grazing my fingers ever so lightly, sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes never leave mine, and in them, I see a spark of something indefinable.
Is it curiosity?
Interest?
I can’t be sure, but it draws me in, compelling me to know more.
“So,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper, “tell me something real about yourself. Something you’ve never told a stranger before.”
His pause lingers, and the weight of the unspoken stretches between us, taut as the violin strings being strummed in the background music.
“I’ve mastered the art of guarding secrets,” he begins, his voice a hushed murmur that sends shivers down my spine. “But for you, tonight, I might be willing to share one.” He leans closer, so close that the edges of our masks nearly touch. The scent of his cologne—a tantalizing blend of cedar and citrus—fills my senses. “Only if,” he continues, the challenge evident in his stormy eyes, “you reciprocate with a truth of your own.”
A torrent of emotions whirls inside me—curiosity, apprehension, excitement. His words are a dare, a high-stakes game of trust and revelation. But the night’s theme revolves around vulnerability, doesn’t it?
If I were writing this scene, my protagonist would face an internal dilemma—torn between self-preservation and the lure of the unknown.
Tonight, reality most certainly mirrors fiction.
My pulse races and the weight of my decision bears down on me.
Of course, I’m going to say yes.
After a heartbeat that feels like an eternity, I muster a sly smile, matching his challenge with bravado of my own. “All right,” I whisper, my voice shaking with a blend of excitement and nerves. “Shall we trade truths, then?”
His lips twitch in response, a hint of satisfaction flashing behind his mask. But before he can answer, the lights dim even further, and a captivating melody fills the room, momentarily distracting us.
The game of truth—now hanging precariously in the air—promises a night that will either expose or ensnare.
It’s a gamble—and the stakes have never felt higher.