The Costume Party - WICKED LITTLE TREATS: A HALLOWEEN COLLECTION - CHAPTER ONE

Ilsa Monroe didn’t plan to spend her Friday night surrounded by strangers in masks and champagne haze—but one look across the ballroom changes everything. Beneath the chandeliers and pretense, a stranger’s gaze cuts through the glitter, daring her to stay a little longer. And when he finally crosses the room, mystery turns to heat in a way no costume could disguise.

Chapter 1

Ilsa

The Party Setup

The second I step into the ballroom, I know I’ve made a mistake. The music hits first, low, steady, and expensive.

There’s glitter everywhere. On the floor, in the air, probably already in my hair—and enough perfume lingering to choke a small country. The air itself feels heavy with money and vanity, every breath tasting faintly of roses and champagne.

People twirl under chandeliers like they’re auditioning for a music video, all masked smiles and champagne laughter. I should’ve stayed home with a glass of wine and a horror movie.

I pull my phone from my clutch and glare at the last text from Jenna. Good luck. That was fifteen minutes ago, right before she vanished with her flavor of the night, leaving me to fend for myself in a room full of satin and secrets.

I adjust my mask, pretending it’s not sliding down my cheek, my fingers brushing the satin tie at the back of my neck. The fabric’s warm from my skin, but the gesture makes me feel like I’m fastening armor instead of fixing a costume. Black lace and a few sparkly details, classy enough to pass, not enough to scream trying too hard. My dress matches the mood: dark, fitted, with a slit high enough to make me question my judgment. Confidence stitched into satin, sold as bravery.

The bass hums through the floor beneath my heels, blending with laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint whisper of expensive cologne.

A waiter drifts past, tray balanced with precision, each flute catching the chandelier light like liquid gold. The soft pop of a new bottle echoes behind him, crisp and satisfying. “Champagne?” he asks, polite but practiced, like he already knows no one here says no.

I pluck a glass from the tray before he’s even done speaking. “Thanks,” I say, and take a slow sip just to have something to do with my hands. The bubbles bite my tongue, crisp and sharp, fizzing up the back of my throat in the best possible way. It’s good—too good, which means it probably costs more than my last paycheck.

He nods once and moves on, swallowed by the crowd, and I’m left with the faint scent of citrus and sugar in his wake.

I take another drink, longer this time, and murmur under my breath, “Twenty minutes. Then I’m gone.”

Of course, I already know I’m lying. My feet are already moving toward the shimmer and noise before my brain catches up.

I catch my reflection in one of the mirrored pillars near the dance floor, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize myself.

The black lace mask softens my face, the deep red lipstick sharpens it again, turning my mouth into something bolder than I feel. I tilt my chin, studying the stranger in the mirror who looks like she might actually belong here. My dress is sleek and dark, with slit high enough to make it a hazard. It clings in all the ways confidence pretends to. I look like I belong here but… I don’t feel like I do.

It’s funny how a mask can do that, turn hesitation into mystery, nerves into allure. Everyone around me seems to believe it too. A woman dressed as some glittering ice queen throws her head back in laughter. A man in a phantom mask spins her like it’s foreplay. Another couple slips toward the balcony, their fingers already tangled.

People are bolder when they think they can’t be seen. Fingers linger a little too long, laughter spills too loud, and boundaries blur behind silk and sequins. Or maybe this is who they are all the time, and the masks just give them permission.

The chandelier light catches in the crystals of my mask, scattering little sparks of gold across my skin. I take another sip of champagne and pretend I’m part of the scene instead of watching it like a cynical outsider.

Then something shifts. The hairs on the back of my neck rise before I even know why. The music keeps going, laughter rolls on, but the air feels different—charged.

Someone’s watching me.

It doesn’t take me long to find him.

He’s standing near the bar, tall and broad, dressed in a dark suit that probably costs more than my car. His half-mask is simple. Matte black, sharp edges and somehow that makes it more dangerous. The kind of face that doesn’t need decoration to draw attention.

He’s not laughing or performing like the others. He’s just… still. Watching. The kind of still that feels intentional, like every slow breath is measured, every look calculated. It’s too calm to be casual.

Our eyes lock across the room, and the noise around me blurs. For a moment, it’s just him and me—my pulse in my throat, the gleam of candlelight catching in his eyes. He raises his glass slightly, like a private toast, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in something between a smile and a dare.

I should look away. Instead, I hold his stare a heartbeat too long. It feels like losing something I didn’t know I was playing for. The air between us hums with something sharp and unfamiliar. I can feel it in my wrists, in the space just beneath my ribs.

When I finally turn, I laugh under my breath, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my neck. “Definitely too old for this,” I mutter.

But when I take another sip of champagne, I’m still facing his direction. And he’s still looking right at me.

He moves through the crowd like he’s parting it with sheer intent, people shifting instinctively to make room. The light catches on the edge of his mask, flashes once across his jaw, and my pulse jumps like it recognizes him before I do. No rush, no hesitation—just quiet confidence wrapped in dark fabric and smooth control. Every step draws my focus tighter until I forget what song’s playing, forget the conversation happening a few feet away.

When he stops in front of me, the air feels heavier.

“Should I guess who you are,” he asks, voice low, smoky, “or do I get to unwrap the surprise?”

My lips tilt. “Depends. Are you planning to ruin the mystery already?”

His mouth curves beneath the mask, slow, deliberate. “Only if it ruins me first.”

The line is ridiculous. It also works.

“Bold,” I say, swirling the last of my champagne. “But maybe you should work on your material.”

He leans in, close enough that the bass vibrates through both of us. “Maybe I don’t need to.”

The words hit lower than they should, sinking straight to that place I’ve spent the night pretending doesn’t exist. My pulse spikes, a traitor in my own chest, and I hate that my body reacts before my brain can decide what to do about it. I should walk away. Laugh. Anything but what I actually do—stand perfectly still, waiting to see what he’ll say next.

He glances toward the dance floor, then back to me. “One dance. Unless you’re afraid I’ll guess too much.”

My throat’s dry, my pulse a drum. “Just one,” I say, setting my glass aside.

But the second his hand finds mine, I already know I’m lying.

To be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part two

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: October 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix