As soon as the classical music began to play, a tall, slender figure glided onto the dance floor. She was clad in a flowing red dress that hugged her body from her chest down to her knees, the fabric shimmering with every step. Her entrance, deliberate yet poised, drew more than a few curious glances.
"Where is he?" She murmured, her eyes scanning the room filled with over two hundred well-dressed guests composed of politicians, heirs, moguls, and elite socialites. She searched for one face in particular.
Unseen by her, a man had already spotted her. He stood abruptly, his sharply tailored black blazer catching the chandelier light. Maxwell's heart pounded as he began weaving through the crowd with urgency.
"Jennie!" he called, his voice nearly drowned by the orchestra's sweeping melody.
"I showed up like I promised. If he doesn't see me, it's his fault, not mine," Her voice was barely audible beneath her breath as she adjusted the golden mask hiding her face.
All around them, couples danced in rhythm, yet two people stood apart: one scanning the crowd, the other stalking.
She remained still, unaware of the gaze that followed her like a shadow. He watched with such intensity it was as if time had slowed for him alone.
Just as she turned to leave the floor, a firm hand caught her arm.
"Jennie," Maxwell said again, his voice strained, desperate to confirm what his eyes suspected.
The sound of that very familiar voice sent chills down her spine, causing her to spontaneously stop in her tracks.
He had once told her, "If I ever see you again, I won't be responsible for what I will do." And he had meant it.
His eyes searched hers with an intensity that left little room for doubt. "That's you, isn't it? Jennie?"
But before he could touch her mask, she intercepted his hand with practiced speed.
"Sorry, but you've got the wrong person," she replied coolly, her voice steady though her pulse raced. She stepped back, both hands clinging to the mask like a lifeline.
Maxwell's gaze narrowed. "I can be wrong about many things," he said, voice low and unyielding, "but I'd never mistake Jennie. I'd recognize you beneath a thousand masks."
Her spine stiffened. The words chipped away at her resolve, but she stood her ground.
He moved forward again.
"Then you just proved yourself wrong," she snapped, the mask pressing tighter to her face, "because I'm not Jennie, or whoever she is."
"I repeat," he growled, stepping in, "I'm never wrong about her."
Then, with a suddenness that caught her off guard, he reached again for her mask.
Her composure cracked.
"W-what do you think you're doing, mister?" she stammered, her calm facade beginning to crack.
"Let go!" She commanded, pushing at his chest with all her strength. But his arms locked around her waist, unmoved by her protests.
"Let's find out if I'm wrong... or if you're just a very bad liar," he said, his breath cold and close.
Her heart stopped for a moment as his hand rose again toward her mask.
Desperate, she fought back harder until a waiter stumbled toward them, teetering under the weight of a tray of champagne flutes.
"Watch out!" she cried, instinctively reaching out to steady him.
Her voice slipped letting out an unguarded note, unmistakably hers.
Maxwell froze. His eyes widened.
Her voice...
"She faked her voice," he muttered, realisation crashing into him like a wave. "That's Jennie's voice."
Rage flared in his chest. He lunged for her.
"Mr. Maxwell!" a voice rang out from the stage. The host, nervously clutching a mic, gestured toward the expectant crowd. "Please, the guests are waiting for you."
"Can you just shut up for once?" Maxwell snapped, venom lacing every word. He didn't care who heard. His mind was on fire.
"This won't take long," he muttered, turning back but only to find the space before him empty.
She was gone.
"Where is she?" His voice sliced through the music like a blade. He spun, black eyes scrutinising the room.
"I said, where the hell is she?!" he roared, seizing the startled waiter by the collar. "You were the last one with her. Which direction—this way or that?" He gestured wildly at the twin exits, his fury mounting.
Around him, the room froze. No one dared speak. Fear gripped every guest like a vice.
"You'd all better pray I find her," he warned, releasing the waiter with a shove. "Otherwise, not one of you will be safe."
And with that, he stormed out the side entrance.
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick as fog. Even minutes later, no one had moved. It was as if the entire room held its breath, unwilling to stir Maxwell's wrath a second time.
---
Outside the towering glass venue, a woman in red sprinted toward a waiting white car, its headlights casting twin beams onto the marble driveway. Her heels clacked in desperation. She glanced back once but there was no sign of him.
But fate wasn't finished.
A young man turned a corner at the wrong moment, and the two collided. She went down hard on the cold floor.
"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, offering a hand.
"I'm so—" she began, then caught herself, grabbed his hand and scrambled to her feet.
She tried to dart away, but he hesitated, gently holding her back.
"I'm fine. You can go," she insisted and made to leave but his grip remained firm on her hand.
"That was a serious fall," he said, noting the way she leaned to one side. "There's a hospital~"
"I said I'm fine! Can't you understand English?" she snapped, yanking free and limping toward the waiting car.
The young man watched her go, brow furrowed. "She's definitely not okay," he murmured.
Behind him, a door slammed open.
Maxwell burst out of the building, eyes locking on the white car just as its engine revved.
"Wait!" he shouted, sprinting forward. "Please, stop! Just give me a minute!"
But the car peeled away, distance widening with every heartbeat.
---
Twenty minutes later, a woman stormed into a dimly lit room. A single lamp on a side table cast warm light across the space. In the far corner, a man in a grey sweater sat behind a laptop, typing.
He looked up. His eyes widened.
"Didn't you leave just a few minutes ago? How are you~" He stopped, noticing the torn hem, the scuffed knees, the blood trickling down her ankle.
"Wait, what happened to your dress? Becca, you're bleeding!"
He shot to his feet and dropped to inspect her leg.
Rebecca's eyes swept across the room. "Where's Sweet Peanut?" She demanded, ignoring everything else.
"You haven't~"
"Get our stuff, Tim. We're leaving now," She broke the news with much urgency.
Timberlake froze. "Wait, what? We still have a few days here. And it's almost midnight!" Timberlake exclaimed, gesturing at the clock.
"I ran into Max at the party," Rebecca blurted, kicking off her heels and began pacing. "He didn't see my face, but somehow, he knew."
"What?!" Timberlake's stomach dropped. His face was drained of color.
"You heard me. And I don't have to spell out what that psycho will do next, right?"
He nodded slowly. He knew exactly what Maxwell was capable of.
"I need to leave right now. Every second here is a risk. I can't let him find us. And he must never know about Sweet Peanut."
Timberlake stood there for a second, then bent and slammed his laptop shut.
"I'll pack everything," he muttered, ready to do as she wanted.
"If Max dares to find out about the existence of my son, then this isn't just gonna be about running and going into hiding anymore. This is gonna a war."