The sultry heat of New Orleans in 1850 hung thick in the air, heavy with magnolia bloom and the iron-sweet breath of the Mississippi. The city pulsed with contradictions—slavery and splendor, music and mourning, elegance gilded by violence. In the heart of the French Quarter, in a grand Creole mansion draped in ivy, a masquerade ball glittered beneath a ceiling of chandeliers. Laughter mingled with the low hum of strings and the crystal clink of champagne flutes, but beneath the satin and civility, secrets festered like wounds beneath lace.

Amara stood at the threshold of the ballroom, a crimson silhouette framed by gold light and smoke. Her silk gown clung to her hips like the memory of hands, and her skin—polished mahogany, luminous and unrepentant—glowed beneath the candlelight. Her mask was a crimson flare of feathers and filigree, obscuring little and revealing more. Eyes followed her as she moved. They always did.

She knew what they saw.

A courtesan. A free woman of color. A scandal in silk.

But they didn’t see everything.

They didn’t see the ledger of names she kept in her head—the women still in chains, the children bartered like coin. They didn’t see her mother’s trembling hands, sewing seams in the back of a shop that would never bear her name. They didn’t see the nights Amara studied Latin by candlelight in the convent school outside Cap-Haïtien, or the revolution stories whispered between nuns—of fire and freedom and the cost of being visible.

She carried Haiti in her bones. Not the bloodshed, but the pride. The knowing.

And here, in the sugar-slick salons of New Orleans, that knowing made her dangerous.

She smiled anyway. Let them wonder if she was mistress or muse. Let them speculate over which judge or merchant or marquis had bought her diamonds—or which of their sons had wept her name into the hollow of her throat.

She belonged to no one.

Tonight, she chose her game.

And her mark was already watching.

Julien Beaumont, heir to one of Louisiana’s oldest sugar dynasties, leaned against a marble pillar like a man who had never been told no. His suit was black as night, his mask silver and sharp. He looked like something carved—strong jaw, cruel mouth, the kind of blue eyes that promised more than they should. He owned land, people, names.

He did not own her.

But Amara could feel the pull of him even across the ballroom—the way power recognized power, even when dressed in velvet and pearls. His gaze didn’t flinch. It burned.

She took a sip of champagne and let the bubbles settle on her tongue. When she walked toward him, it was not an invitation. It was a dare.

They swept onto the floor, bodies close, her hand resting on the fine muscle of his arm. He smelled of bourbon, tobacco, and something darker—something restless beneath the silk.

“You’re the talk of the room,” he said. “And not just for the dress.”

“Jealous?” she teased, her voice honeyed but edged.

He smiled, but there was something brittle in it. “Something like that.”

She tilted her head. “You always this quiet when you’re getting what you want?”

“Only when I’m not sure I deserve it.”

It was spoken lightly—an offhand thing. But Amara caught the flicker in his eyes, the glance that didn’t quite land.

There it was.

The edge.

He turned his head slightly, gaze tracing the chandelier, the masks, the careful polish of the world they both knew too well.

“My father’s decided I need to marry before harvest,” he said, almost casually. “Says it’s time to stop playing and start building the future. Whatever that means.”

“And is this”—she let her hips press just slightly into his—”playing?”

His lips brushed her ear, breath warm. “Depends on whether I’m still breathing come morning.”

Amara’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. Her smile didn’t waver.

He’s dancing toward something he can’t name, she thought. And hoping I’ll be the one to name it for him.

But that wasn’t her role. She played many, but not that one.

She danced, let the heat rise between them, let him feel the ache of wanting something that didn’t belong to him. Let him wear that mask of poise while something unraveled underneath.

She whispered, “You ever think about what it would be like, if the rules were different?”

Julien didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted.

Then, softly: “Sometimes.”

One word. Weighted.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “So is dancing with you in public.”

She felt the weight of that—what it meant for him to say it, what it cost her to hear it. The eyes on them weren’t just hungry or jealous. Some were scandalized. Some calculating. There would be talk.

Maybe he doesn’t see the chains he wears, she thought, but I do.

She had seen those chains coiled in every parlor, every estate ledger, every silver spoon gilded by stolen labor. And still, her body leaned into his. Still, her fingers laced with his, as if desire could be disentangled from history.