Chapter 4 The Ball Invitation

Ella stared at the flickering screen of the old television in the kitchen.

The volume was low, but the headline was unmistakable.

> "Billionaire Liam Blackwell to Host Exclusive Masquerade Gala. Seeking Mystery Savior."

Her breath hitched.

The footage cut to a reporter standing outside Blackwell Enterprises.

> "The elusive billionaire has announced a private ball next Friday at the Crystal Garden Hotel. Guests are invitation-only, with one purpose: to identify the woman who saved him during a targeted ambush last week. Mr. Blackwell was quoted saying, 'I need to find her. And I will.'"

Ella's heart thundered.

He remembered.

He meant it.

---

Down the hall, Vivian Hart's heels echoed like warning bells. She stormed into the kitchen holding a gold-embossed envelope in her hand.

"Ivy! Clara!" she shouted. "Come here-now!"

The girls came running, faces eager.

"What is it?" Ivy asked, grabbing the envelope.

Clara squealed before even opening it. "Is it from-?"

"Yes," Vivian confirmed, her eyes gleaming. "We've been invited."

Ella's mouth went dry.

The invitation was thick, elegant, marked with a shimmering seal: LB-Liam Blackwell.

"This is it," Vivian said. "The masquerade ball. He's looking for someone, yes, but he doesn't know who. That means it's our chance."

Clara flipped her hair. "He won't remember her face."

Ivy smirked. "But he'll remember ours."

Vivian turned to Ella, sneering. "Don't even think about showing your face. I'm locking up everything you own for the weekend. And if I catch you sneaking out..."

Ella bowed her head. "I wouldn't dare."

But her fingers clenched around the edge of her apron.

She dared.

---

🌙 That Night...

Ella stood before the cracked mirror in her attic room.

She still had the bracelet she wore that night. The one Liam had touched.

She took it out from her secret box, placed it on her wrist, and closed her eyes.

I don't want to be invisible anymore.

---

💼 Meanwhile... At Blackwell Enterprises

Liam reviewed the list of attendees for the ball. One hundred names. All socialites. CEOs. Heiresses. Performers.

None of them were her.

"I want every guest screened," he told his assistant. "No press. No photos. And let them wear masks-but log every entrance."

"You really think she'll come?" the assistant asked.

"She will," he said, with certainty. "She saved me. She wasn't looking for fame. She was trying to survive. This ball will be her invitation to rise."

His thoughts were interrupted by a buzz on his private line.

A voice came through, feminine and full of venom.

"Mr. Blackwell, this is Vivian Hart. My daughters and I are delighted to accept your invitation."

Liam didn't respond.

But a memory flashed in his mind. A hallway. A staircase. The faint voice of a woman saying "Yes, ma'am," like she was used to being ignored.

His jaw clenched.

He'd been in that house before.

---

🕰️ The Week Before the Ball

While Clara and Ivy rushed to boutiques and spent thousands on masks and gowns, Ella worked double shifts. She cleaned, cooked, and listened to their cruel laughter as they mocked her behind her back.

She pretended not to care.

But every night, she sketched.

Gowns. Dresses. Dreams.

Until one night, a letter slid under her attic door.

No name. No handwriting. Just an address and a note:

> "A gift for the girl who saved a life.

Friday. 6:00 PM. Don't be late."

-L.B.

Ella gasped.

The address?

It was a hidden fashion atelier. One that only the wealthiest in the city used for custom gowns.

Her fingers trembled.

He remembered her.

He knew.

He wanted her to come.