The Scent of Midnight Roses

The masquerade was a blur of music and candlelight, but when she found herself in his arms as the evening reached its peak, the world sharpened.

“You don’t even know my name,” she teased.

He spun her effortlessly. “Then tell me.”

She hesitated. The night’s magic was fleeting, and so was she.

Instead, she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Maybe next time.”

The distant chimes of the grand clock echoed through the ballroom, and when he opened his eyes, she was nowhere to be found.

But on his wrist, where her fingers had brushed, lingered the faint scent of roses.