Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This
episode is titled The Midnight Masquerade Episode one Midnight Kiss.
Speaker 2: A good masquerade like a good lie, succeeds in the details,
the weight of velvet against skin, the whisper of secrets
behind silk, the perfect angle of a mask that reveals
just enough to be dangerous. Tonight, as New York's elite
gather in the grand ballroom of the Archer Hotel, I'm
wearing all three midnight blue velvet, blood red silk, and
a mask crafted from black lace and dangerous intentions. My
name is Vivian Knight, and I orchestrate more than just parties.
East Entrance is covered. Celeste's voice purs through my hidden earpiece,
facial recognition scanning everyone masked or not. I adjust a
crystal champagne flute on a passing tray, my reflection multiplying
in the ballroom's gilt mirrors. Status on the target list
seven confirmed, including Julian Cross. He's early, of course, he
is ten billion in tech money makes you think you
own time itself and the other matter. I keep my
voice low, professional like I'm just the perfectionist event planner.
Checking details. No sign of him yet, But if Morgan
Steele's intel is accurate, Celeste hesitates, Vivian, are you sure
about this? After Paris? Paris was different? My pulse quickens
at the memory, at how it felt to leave him there,
handcuffed to Egyptian cotton. Desire and fury warring in those
steel gray eyes. This is business like vas Enna was. Business.
Before I can answer, the temperature in the room shifts,
the crowd parts like silk around a blade, and there
he is, Morgan's steel, six feet of lethal grace in
a tuxedo that probably costs more than most people's cars.
His mask is simple, elegant, black leather, matching his shoes,
his gloves, his reputation. He moves through my party like
he owns it, like he owns everything, including the secrets
I stole from him two years ago. He spots me instantly,
of course he does, even with three hundred masted guests
between us. Morgan Steele's radar has always been perfectly tuned
to my frequency incoming, Celeste warns, unnecessarily want me to
run interference? No, I adjust my mask. Time to face
the music. The live orchestra shifts into something slow and dangerous.
As Morgan approaches Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers, but with
a darker undertone. Like everything else tonight, the music is calculated, designed,
miss Night. His voice hits me like aged whisky, like memory,
like sin. Quite the spectacle you've created, mister Steele. I
offer my hand, knowing what comes next. Welcome to my masquerade.
His kiss on my knuckles burns through his leather glove.
The pleasure his eyes meet mine through our masks is
entirely mine. Two years dissolve like sugar and champagne. Suddenly
I'm back in that Paris hotel room, his hands mapping
my skin, his mouth tasting victory before I turn the tables.
Dance with me, not a request, never with him. I'm working,
but I'm already moving into his arms, so am I.
His hand slides lower than strictly proper on my back.
Tell me, Vivian, do you still keep the most interesting
intel in your lingerie? I press closer, letting him feel
the knife strapped to my thigh. Why don't you try
to find out again? His laugh rumbles through his chest
into mine. Last time I tried that, I woke up
handcuffed to a bed in Paris. Last time you tried that,
I counter, as he spins me, you are trying to
arrest me. No. His hand tightens possessively on my waist.
Last time I was trying to save you. The words
hit like ice water. But I keep dancing, keep smiling
from what? From whatever you're involved in? Now his mouth
brushes my ear. Julian Cross isn't just here for the party,
is he? I pull back enough to study his face
behind the mask. You're not really here as a private
security consultant, are you? You know what I am? His
thumb strokes the bare skin of my back, just like
I know what you really do with all these elaborate parties,
do you? I arch into his touch, a calculate move
that brings our bodies closer. Tell me, then, what am
I doing? Building an empire? His eyes burn into mine.
Trading secrets like currency. Using these masks to make people
reveal what they'd never show in the light sounds fascinating.
I let my hand slide up his chest and completely unprovable.
Like those CIA files you stole in Paris, His smile
is sharp, the ones that disappeared right after you left
me wanting. Heat floods my body at the memory at
how he'd looked stretched out on that hotel bed, desire
and danger radiating from his skin, At how hard it
had been to walk away. Maybe I just didn't want
to be arrested. My fingers find his tie, straighten it unnecessarily.
Or maybe I just needed better pillow talk? Is that
what you need?
Speaker 1: Now?
Speaker 2: His hand catches mine, holds it against his heart. Talk.
Before I can answer, Celeste's voice cuts through my earpiece.
Julian Cross headed your way, and he's not alone. Julian
Cross moves like old money, entitled, assured, deadly. His mask
is pure gold, catching light, like his reputation for destroying
anyone who crosses him. The woman on his arm wears
red and danger. Don't let go, Morgan murmurs, still moving
us to the music. Make it look good. It always
looks good with us. I press closer as Julian approaches,
even when it's bad, especially then Vivian. Julian's voice carries
that particular tone of wealth and threat. Your parties never disappoint.
His eyes slide to Morgan, though your dance partners might, Julian,
I let Morgan's hands slip to my hip, possessive. I
see you brought a guest. The woman in red extends
her hand, heavy with rue Marina Volkov. Her Russian accent
is slight but precise. Such a lovely party. Marina Volkov
arms dealer, powerbroker, the woman who's supposed to be dead.
Welcome to New York. I feel Morgan's fingers tighten on
my hip. He's recognized her too. I trust you'll find
tonight illuminating. Oh, I expect so. Marina's smile is all teeth,
especially at midnight. They move away, but the temperature in
the room has dropped ten degrees. Morgan's mouth finds my ear,
seemingly intimate but actually urgent. We need to talk now.
Storage room, I breathe, back behind the wine bar. Two minutes.
His kiss on my cheek is for show, but it
burns anyway. Don't run this time, don't give me a
reason to The storage room is all shadows and vintage wines.
When I slip inside, Morgan follows seconds later, locking the door.
Marina Volkov is supposed to be dead, he says, crowding
me against the wine racks. I know because I'm the
one who was supposed to kill her when Vienna. His
hands bracket my head against the bottles. The night you
showed up and everything went sideways. Understanding hits like good whiskey.
I wasn't there for you. No, his laugh is bitter.
You were there for whatever. Marina was selling the same thing.
Julian Cross is buying to night and what's that? Instead
of answering, he kisses me hard, demanding nothing like our
careful dance in the ball room. This is raw truth,
stripped of pretense. You tell me, he breathes against my mouth.
You're the one with the guest list, the one who
arranged all this. Maybe I just like a good party.
His hand slides up my thigh, finds the knife strap there.
Maybe you like playing with fire. Maybe I A scream
cuts through the music, then another, then silence. Morgan's body
tenses against mine. Stay here like hell. I'm already moving,
knife in hand. This is my party. His smile is
sharp in the darkness. God, I've missed you. We emerge
to chaos in the center of the ballroom. Julian Cross
lies face down in a spreading pool of red. Marina
is nowhere to be seen and on Julian's back, written
in what looks suspiciously like my signature lipstick. Midnight Comes
Early Tonight.
Speaker 3: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of Ai
Speaker 2: Calaruga Shark Media