Masquerade on East End

By Gianni Shamari

Copyright ©2026

The penthouse at East End on the Upper East Side of Manhattan is alive with the scents of October and wealth. Cold air flows in from the terrace, warmth emanates from numerous beeswax candles, and champagne bubbles up in tall crystal glasses. Maré stands by the black marble bar, tuxedo jacket open, a simple black domino mask doing little to conceal his identity. The crowd is a blur of velvet, smoke, and masquerade feathers, but he never takes his eyes off her from the moment she arrives.

She wears emerald silk that catches the light with every movement, a gold filigree mask tipped with emerald wings. Her dark hair is swept into an updo, leaving her shoulders bare.

"I've been watching you for ten minutes," she says when she finally closes the distance. Her voice is soft, a little amused, with a faint accent he can't place. "Is that your idea, Maré?"

He laughs. "You know my name even though you're wearing the mask. That's not fair."

"I know the penthouse. I know the watch," she replies, tapping the air near his wrist without touching it. "And I know you ordered champagne you haven't touched, waiting for someone interesting to share it with."

Maré picks up two glasses. The bubbles race upward in quick, fine streams.

"Guilty," he admits, handing her one. "What's your name when you're not mysterious?"

"Tonight, just call me Esmeralda," she says. "Tomorrow, I'll go back to being sensible."

Their glasses meet. The champagne is dry, cold, with a taste like green apple and brioche.

So, Esmeralda, who isn't sensible, Maré says, "What brings you to a Halloween party where bankers pretend to be poets?"

"The music," she says. "And the view." She turns slightly toward the terrace doors, where Manhattan glitters like spilled diamonds below. "And I heard the host was handsome but terrible at small talk."

"Terrible?" Maré puts a hand to his chest, feigning injury. "I'm excellent at small talk. I can discuss art, architecture—and the reasons this champagne is too cold."

She smiles through her mask, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Now he catches her perfume—jasmine and amber, warmth against the cool air.

"Prove it," she challenges.

Maré leans against the bar, coming closer. "That dress—your silk—it sounds like water when you walk. And the mask? You chose it because you like watching people before they realize they're being watched."

She takes a slow sip. "Not bad, playboy."

"Your turn," Maré says.

She studies him. "You throw parties for a crowd, but you only ever care about talking to one person at a time."

That hits home.

The DJ shifts to something slower—brushed drums, piano notes vibrating through the floor.

"Dance with me," she says. It's not a question.

They move slowly on the dance floor, candlelight casting flickering shadows, the silk at her waist cool and smooth under his palm, city sounds humming softly beneath them.

She leans in, whispering, "You smell of cedar."

"You smell like trouble," Maré murmurs back.

She laughs again, low and intimate.

"Walk me to the terrace?" she asks. "I want to feel the air."

October pours in—crisp and clean, tinged with the distant scent of rain on pavement. She shivers. He slips his jacket over her bare shoulders, saying nothing.

"You didn't have to do that," she says.

"I wanted to," he replies.

They stand side by side, looking out at the lights, both masked, holding champagne warming in their hands, in no hurry at all.

"So," Maré says after a moment, "does Esmeralda stay past midnight?"

She looks at him, the gold and emerald of her mask reflecting the city's glow.

"Well, it depends," she says. "Are you going to ask me properly for my real name?"

Maré asks softly, "What's your real name?"

She moves closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath.

"If you buy me one more glass of champagne, I might tell you."

Maré pours it himself. The bottle sweats in the silver bucket by the terrace doors. It's Dom Pérignon, cold enough to sting your fingers. He tilts it slowly.

"You're doing that on purpose," she teases.

"Doing what?" Maré smiles.

"Pouring like you have all the time in the world." She replies.

"Tonight, I do," he says. "Time is the one thing I have plenty of."

She watches the bubbles rise in her glass as the city wind lifts a strand of her hair.

"So, you know how to pour," she says. "Still haven't asked for my name properly."

Maré smiles and puts the bottle down.

"My name's Maré," he says, as if they have just met. He removes his black domino mask, revealing eyes warmer without it, dark brown and a bit tired at the edges in a way tabloids never show. "I live here and throw too many parties. I'd rather talk to you on this freezing terrace than anyone inside. Shall I know your name?"

It's a kind of honesty he doesn't expect. She goes silent for a moment, then lifts her hands and removes her mask. The gold filigree falls away, revealing a face that makes the air stop—high cheekbones, deep brown eyes lined with soft kohl, lips painted a dark wine red.

"My name is Lena," she says.

He repeats it—"Lena"—and it feels pleasant on his tongue.

"Hi, Lena."

"Hi, Maré."

She returns his jacket; their fingers brush, her skin cool from the wind.

"Inside, it's too loud to think," she says. "Out here, I can actually hear you."

"And what am I saying?" Maré asks.

"That you're not really a playboy," she says, sipping. "You just play one when you're bored."

He laughs—a real laugh this time. "You got me. Are you psychic, or just dangerous?"

"A little of both," Lena says. "I own a flower shop downtown, on Jane Street. People come in wearing masks all day too—just not as pretty as these."

"A flower shop," he echoes. "That's why you smell like jasmine."

"You smell like cedar because of that ridiculous fireplace in your bedroom you never use," Lena teases, nodding toward the living room where a fire crackles untouched.

"You've been in my bedroom?"

"I looked," Lena confesses, without embarrassment. "When I was searching for the bathroom. You have too many white shirts and one very good book on the nightstand. Proust."

"Rifling through my apartment and judging my library," Maré says. "I like it."

"I like you better without the mask," Lena says.

The wind grows stronger, carrying laughter, clinking glasses, and the crash of a dropped tray from inside. Manhattan's party goes on, but outside, it's just the two of them, the low terrace wall, and fifty stories of sparkling air.

Maré moves a bit closer, not crowding, only close enough for their warmth to mingle.

He says, "Stay. When the party thins out, I'll make you a proper drink. One without bubbles. Tea. 

My tea is terrible, but I make it with enthusiasm."

Lena looks at him, then at the skyline, then back again.

"One condition," she says.

"Anything."

"Tomorrow, come to Jane Street. No driver. No watch. Buy flowers from me like a normal person."

"Alright," he says immediately. "What kind of flowers would you like to sell me?"

Lena smiles, broad and unrestrained—better than any mask, better than the silk.

"Midnight ones," she whispers. "The kind that only open when someone interesting is around."

Inside, the party was letting out its breath. The music lowered, and coats were draped over arms. Laughter softened and grew drowsy. From the terrace window, Maré saw his apartment—the candles burned low with wax gathering at the bottoms, and a few friends lay on his sofa talking without their shoes. He wasn't ready to go back yet.

"They'll think the host disappeared," Lena said, but she didn't move either.

"Let them," Maré said. "Best parties are the ones the host abandons."

Lena laughs and leans her forearms on the cold stone railing. The emerald silk pulls tight across her back, then loosens. The jacket slips slightly off her shoulder, and he gently fixes it.

"It's tiny," she says. "You can smell it before you see it—eucalyptus in the winter, peonies in May. My mother had it before me. She taught me how to cut stems underwater so they live longer."

"Do you love it?"

"I do," she says. "At 7 a.m., when the delivery truck comes, the whole street smells green. Like the city forgot to be a city for five minutes, you'd hate it. No champagne."

"I like green," he says.

Lena turns and looks at him; up close, without the masks on, her eyes have specks of amber, and her lipstick has worn down to nothing but a stain.

"You look nice when you're not putting on an act," she says softly.

"You're the first person tonight to tell me that."

"I'm the only one who looked."

Between them, a quiet appears—deliberate and unhurried.

Lena finishes her champagne and places the glass on the railing with a gentle clink. "Right, it's tea. You said you'd provide terrible tea with great enthusiasm, so I'll keep you to that."

For her, Maré opens the door to the terrace, and warm air spills out, mixed with vanilla and smoke. They walk through the apartment holding hands, unconcerned who might be looking. On the couch, a friend of Maré's raises an eyebrow. Maré smiles and continues. The kitchen is quiet and the marble cool beneath his bare feet. Maré fills the kettle while she hops onto the counter, her silk rustling and legs swinging, the jacket huge around her.

"You really do have too many white shirts," she says, peeking into the laundry room.

"You snoop fast."

"I notice things fast," she says. "It's my job. Someone walks in, and I know in two seconds if they need apology roses, I'm-sorry-I-forgot-your-birthday lilies, or I-love-you-even-though-you're-difficult ranunculus."

Maré asks, "What do I need?" while leaning on the counter in front of her.

Lena pretends to think, head tilted. The kettle begins to hiss.

"You need something you can't buy," she says.

"That's bad for business. I'm a billionaire. I buy everything."

"Not this," she says, reaching out to tuck an invisible thread from his collar. Her fingers are warm now. "This needs time and someone who shows up without a driver."

The kettle clicks off. Maré makes two mugs—chipped, mismatched, not at all like the crystal from earlier. Steam curls up, smelling like lemon and ginger.

Lena takes hers with both hands. "This is actually good."

"Don't sound surprised."

They sit there in his kitchen, in a tuxedo and emerald silk and a borrowed tuxedo jacket, drinking tea while Manhattan glitters outside and the last guests find their own way out.

"Midnight flowers," Maré says after a while. "Do I get to see them tomorrow?"

"If you come at 7 a.m.," Lena says. "No mask. Just you."

"I'll be there," he says. "And I'll be terrible at choosing, so you'll have to help me."

Lena slides off the counter, close enough that her dress brushes his trousers, and looks up at him.

"Deal," she whispers.

And for the first time all night, neither of them reaches for champagne.

Maré traces slow circles on Lena’s bare shoulder with his fingertips, the faintest touch sending shivers across her skin. The room is heavy with the scent of rain drifting through the open window, mingling with their warmth. Lena’s breath is soft and shallow, lips parted as she leans into him, her hair tumbling across his chest like silk.

Outside, thunder rumbles, a low vibration resonating inside them both. Maré’s hand slides down Lena’s arm, his touch gentle and deliberate, raising goosebumps. He presses his lips to the hollow of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin and the heat of her pulse beneath his mouth. She turns toward him, eyes dark and luminous, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him closer.

Their bodies collide beneath tangled linen, the sheets kicked away with restless urgency. Maré’s mouth finds Lena’s neck, teeth grazing her skin, breath hot and uneven as his hands roam—greedy, unashamed. She arches into him, nails biting his back, her gasp sharp against his lips. He moans her name against her throat, the sound raw, almost desperate. Her legs wrap around his hips, drawing him closer, skin slick, tangled, aching for more. Every movement is hungry—his hand at her thigh, her mouth at his jaw, the roll and press of hips pushing them higher. They lose themselves in sweat and shudder and the wild, unrestrained rhythm of bodies wanting, needing, taking—nothing polite, nothing held back. The world narrows to heat, to frantic heartbeats, to the primal ways they reach for each other in the dark.

7:03 a.m. Jane Street smells like rain and stems.

Maré walks, no driver, just as he promised. October has turned crisp overnight, and his breath makes little clouds. He wears a dark sweater, jeans, and sneakers—he can't remember the last time he's worn sneakers in the city.

He finds it by smell first—eucalyptus and wet pavement and coffee from next door.

LENA'S—white painted letters on the window, a little crooked. Inside, warm golden lights and buckets of flowers everywhere. Lena is there, hair down now, in a thick oatmeal sweater and an apron covered in green. No silk, no gold mask. More beautiful like this, he thinks.

The bell jingles when he pushes the door. Cold air follows him in.

"You came," Lena says, and her whole face lights up.

"You said 7 a.m. It's 7:03. I got lost on purpose so that I wouldn't look too eager." Maré said.

"You look eager," Lena said, coming around the counter. Her hands are cold from the flower water. She takes his wrist without thinking. "You kept your promise. No watch."

Maré turns his bare wrist over. "Feels strange. Like I'm naked."

"You are a little naked without your armor," Lena teases, but gently. "Tea? The kettle's already on."

"I thought you were selling me midnight flowers."

"I am," Lena says. "But midnight flowers like to be chosen slowly."

She leads him to the back where a single bucket sits apart. The blooms are unlike anything he's seen—deep indigo petals almost black, with centers like pale moonlight. They haven't fully opened yet, tight and shy.

"Moonflowers," she whispers. "They only open at night. But if you talk to them, they get confused and open for you in the morning."

Maré looks at her. "Are you serious?"

"Completely unserious. But try."

Maré crouches down, a ridiculous billionaire on his haunches in a flower shop at 7 a.m., and whispers to a bucket of flowers.

"Good morning," he says, feeling foolish and not caring. "I walked here. The lady who grows you is... she's something else. You should open for her, if not for me."

Behind him, Lena makes a soft sound. The petals tremble—one, then another, slowly unfurling as the warm shop air touches them. Indigo turns to violet, turning to white at the edges.

Lena kneels beside him. Their shoulders touch. She smells like rain and green stems and that same jasmine, fainter now.

"See?" she whispers. "They like you."

"I like them," he says, but he's looking at her.

Lena reaches out and brushes a bit of leaf off his sweater. Her cold fingers linger.

"Maré," she says, quieter. "What do you want to do today? You have a company to run and a penthouse to clean after a party."

"Nothing," he says honestly. "I want to stay here and watch flowers open and drink bad tea with you and learn which roses are for apologies."

Lena smiles, slowly. "Apology roses are blush pink. Difficult love is ranunculus. And... this—" she touches one moonflower, barely, reverently—"this is for when you meet someone on a terrace, and you don't want the night to end."

The shop bell jingles again, but neither of them stands up.

Outside, New York wakes up—taxis hissing on wet asphalt, someone shouting about coffee. Inside, it's just warm light, steam from the kettle, the earthy smell of flower water, and two people kneeling in front of a bucket of midnight flowers that decide, just this once, to bloom in the morning.

About Gianni Shamari:

New York native Gianni Shamari coined the term “champagne erotica,” a fast-paced erotic story that captures the celebration of the champagne lifestyle. He made his publishing debut with the erotic tale “Another Best Erotic Night of My Life” in 2016, The Very Best of Bare Back Magazine anthology. Gianni has been writing for Bare Back Magazine for eight years. His novellas "Monica Hershel: Predator on Top" and "His Highness, the Philogynist" established him as an author. Gianni's third erotic novella, "Maré & Monica: The Best of Both Worlds," showed his growth as a writer. He just released his fourth erotic novella, "Ecstasy Around the World," which is a must-read.