Jan. 2, 2025

The Midnight Masquerade: (Episode 1 of 4) - "The Midnight Kiss"

Show Notes
Transcript

On New Year's Eve in Manhattan, elite event planner and secret intelligence broker Vivian Night orchestrates her most ambitious masquerade yet, only to come face-to-face with Morgan Steel - the ex-CIA operative she left handcuffed to a bed in Paris two years ago. Their charged reunion on the dance floor reignites both passion and danger as they realize they're both investigating the same target. When supposedly dead arms dealer Marina Volkov appears on tech billionaire Julian Cross's arm, Vivian and Morgan's professional facade crumbles into an intimate confrontation in the wine storage room.

But their heated moment is interrupted by murder, as Julian Cross's body is discovered with a cryptic message in Vivian's signature shade of lipstick. Now, as midnight approaches, Vivian must decide if she can trust the man who once hunted her - especially when he might be the only one who can help her survive until the New Year.

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Calaroga Shark Media, Hello, and welcome to Romance Weekly. This

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episode is titled The Midnight Masquerade Episode one Midnight Kiss.

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A good masquerade like a good lie, succeeds in the details,

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the weight of velvet against skin, the whisper of secrets

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behind silk, the perfect angle of a mask that reveals

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just enough to be dangerous. Tonight, as New York's elite

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gather in the grand ballroom of the Archer Hotel, I'm

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wearing all three midnight blue velvet, blood red silk, and

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a mask crafted from black lace and dangerous intentions. My

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name is Vivian Knight, and I orchestrate more than just parties.

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East Entrance is covered. Celeste's voice purs through my hidden earpiece,

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facial recognition scanning everyone masked or not. I adjust a

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crystal champagne flute on a passing tray, my reflection multiplying

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in the ballroom's gilt mirrors. Status on the target list

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seven confirmed, including Julian Cross. He's early, of course, he

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is ten billion in tech money makes you think you

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own time itself and the other matter. I keep my

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voice low, professional like I'm just the perfectionist event planner.

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Checking details. No sign of him yet, But if Morgan

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Steele's intel is accurate, Celeste hesitates, Vivian, are you sure

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about this? After Paris? Paris was different? My pulse quickens

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at the memory, at how it felt to leave him there,

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handcuffed to Egyptian cotton. Desire and fury warring in those

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steel gray eyes. This is business like vas Enna was. Business.

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Before I can answer, the temperature in the room shifts,

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the crowd parts like silk around a blade, and there

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he is, Morgan's steel, six feet of lethal grace in

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a tuxedo that probably costs more than most people's cars.

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His mask is simple, elegant, black leather, matching his shoes,

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his gloves, his reputation. He moves through my party like

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he owns it, like he owns everything, including the secrets

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I stole from him two years ago. He spots me instantly,

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of course he does, even with three hundred masted guests

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between us. Morgan Steele's radar has always been perfectly tuned

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to my frequency incoming, Celeste warns, unnecessarily want me to

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run interference? No, I adjust my mask. Time to face

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the music. The live orchestra shifts into something slow and dangerous.

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As Morgan approaches Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers, but with

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a darker undertone. Like everything else tonight, the music is calculated, designed,

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miss Night. His voice hits me like aged whisky, like memory,

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like sin. Quite the spectacle you've created, mister Steele. I

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offer my hand, knowing what comes next. Welcome to my masquerade.

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His kiss on my knuckles burns through his leather glove.

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The pleasure his eyes meet mine through our masks is

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entirely mine. Two years dissolve like sugar and champagne. Suddenly

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I'm back in that Paris hotel room, his hands mapping

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my skin, his mouth tasting victory before I turn the tables.

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Dance with me, not a request, never with him. I'm working,

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but I'm already moving into his arms, so am I.

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His hand slides lower than strictly proper on my back.

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Tell me, Vivian, do you still keep the most interesting

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intel in your lingerie? I press closer, letting him feel

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the knife strapped to my thigh. Why don't you try

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to find out again? His laugh rumbles through his chest

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into mine. Last time I tried that, I woke up

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handcuffed to a bed in Paris. Last time you tried that,

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I counter, as he spins me, you are trying to

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arrest me. No. His hand tightens possessively on my waist.

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Last time I was trying to save you. The words

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hit like ice water. But I keep dancing, keep smiling

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from what? From whatever you're involved in? Now his mouth

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brushes my ear. Julian Cross isn't just here for the party,

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is he? I pull back enough to study his face

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behind the mask. You're not really here as a private

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security consultant, are you? You know what I am? His

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thumb strokes the bare skin of my back, just like

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I know what you really do with all these elaborate parties,

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do you? I arch into his touch, a calculate move

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that brings our bodies closer. Tell me, then, what am

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I doing? Building an empire? His eyes burn into mine.

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Trading secrets like currency. Using these masks to make people

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reveal what they'd never show in the light sounds fascinating.

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I let my hand slide up his chest and completely unprovable.

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Like those CIA files you stole in Paris, His smile

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is sharp, the ones that disappeared right after you left

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me wanting. Heat floods my body at the memory at

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how he'd looked stretched out on that hotel bed, desire

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and danger radiating from his skin, At how hard it

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had been to walk away. Maybe I just didn't want

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to be arrested. My fingers find his tie, straighten it unnecessarily.

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Or maybe I just needed better pillow talk? Is that

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what you need?

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Now?

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His hand catches mine, holds it against his heart. Talk.

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Before I can answer, Celeste's voice cuts through my earpiece.

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Julian Cross headed your way, and he's not alone. Julian

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Cross moves like old money, entitled, assured, deadly. His mask

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is pure gold, catching light, like his reputation for destroying

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anyone who crosses him. The woman on his arm wears

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red and danger. Don't let go, Morgan murmurs, still moving

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us to the music. Make it look good. It always

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looks good with us. I press closer as Julian approaches,

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even when it's bad, especially then Vivian. Julian's voice carries

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that particular tone of wealth and threat. Your parties never disappoint.

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His eyes slide to Morgan, though your dance partners might, Julian,

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I let Morgan's hands slip to my hip, possessive. I

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see you brought a guest. The woman in red extends

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her hand, heavy with rue Marina Volkov. Her Russian accent

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is slight but precise. Such a lovely party. Marina Volkov

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arms dealer, powerbroker, the woman who's supposed to be dead.

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Welcome to New York. I feel Morgan's fingers tighten on

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my hip. He's recognized her too. I trust you'll find

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tonight illuminating. Oh, I expect so. Marina's smile is all teeth,

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especially at midnight. They move away, but the temperature in

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the room has dropped ten degrees. Morgan's mouth finds my ear,

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seemingly intimate but actually urgent. We need to talk now.

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Storage room, I breathe, back behind the wine bar. Two minutes.

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His kiss on my cheek is for show, but it

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burns anyway. Don't run this time, don't give me a

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reason to The storage room is all shadows and vintage wines.

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When I slip inside, Morgan follows seconds later, locking the door.

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Marina Volkov is supposed to be dead, he says, crowding

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me against the wine racks. I know because I'm the

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one who was supposed to kill her when Vienna. His

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hands bracket my head against the bottles. The night you

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showed up and everything went sideways. Understanding hits like good whiskey.

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I wasn't there for you. No, his laugh is bitter.

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You were there for whatever. Marina was selling the same thing.

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Julian Cross is buying to night and what's that? Instead

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of answering, he kisses me hard, demanding nothing like our

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careful dance in the ball room. This is raw truth,

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stripped of pretense. You tell me, he breathes against my mouth.

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You're the one with the guest list, the one who

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arranged all this. Maybe I just like a good party.

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His hand slides up my thigh, finds the knife strap there.

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Maybe you like playing with fire. Maybe I A scream

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cuts through the music, then another, then silence. Morgan's body

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tenses against mine. Stay here like hell. I'm already moving,

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knife in hand. This is my party. His smile is

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sharp in the darkness. God, I've missed you. We emerge

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to chaos in the center of the ballroom. Julian Cross

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lies face down in a spreading pool of red. Marina

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is nowhere to be seen and on Julian's back, written

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in what looks suspiciously like my signature lipstick. Midnight Comes

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Early Tonight.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive

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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast

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may have been created with the assistance of Ai

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Calaruga Shark Media

The Midnight Masquerade: (Episode 1 of 4) - "The Midnight Kiss"

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