Chapter 13 Forrest
Chapter thirteen
Forrest
The Phantom was a vampire, he bit Christine, then Christine bit Raoul, and the whole thing ended with Christine killing them both. It was a real crowd-pleaser.
And this production would be a success. If I had to make every single ticket sale myself.
“Father, you fired both our leading Christine and the understudy!” Hieronymus wailed as they wheeled the graveyard set pieces on stage behind him.
“Correct.”
“And you’ve hired Birdie to play Christine?”
“That’s right.”
“Daddy, this is going to be a disaster!” Paige cried hysterically, pulling at her ponytail. “Her with her. . .bedroom voice, why it’s just—just ridiculous!”
“Nonsense,” I said. “It’s going to be a smashing success. Don’t be idiots. Birdie being the star is going to drive ticket demand through the roof. You have a chance to direct the most buzzed-about production of this show ever. So treat your star well or I will be very displeased.”
They looked horrified.
“And all this because you’re fascinated—by that little—”
I turned slowly. “That little what?”
Paige pressed her lips together and put a cup of coffee to her lips. “Nothing.”
“Go on.”
“Well, everyone is too scared to say anything to you, but Birdie’s a—gold-digger!”
My teeth gritted together with rage.
“Oh really? Then why have I been throwing millions of dollars at her to get her to forgive me and she absolutely refuses?”
“Well—I—"
“You haven’t been saying anything to Birdie, have you?”
“Of course not. You made it very clear we have to be nice.”
“If I hear either of you say one damn thing to Birdie that isn’t along the lines of great singing, stepmother dear, I am going to disinherit the both of you.”
“All right, Daddy, all right,” Hieronymus said. “But there’s something you need to know. I don’t think Mother is going to take this quietly. I think she’s going to try to mess up the performance.”
I turned coldly.
“What? You two are going to tell me everything you know.”
It only took one glare before they were babbling out everything they knew: that Phee had begged both of them to try and stop the wedding, that she was incredibly jealous of Birdie, that she had put her understudy up to the scene at the bowling alley, that she was willing to do anything to make sure the production failed.
Fuck. Why had I ever thought this drama was amusing in the past? A 65-year-old man was too old for this shit. If I ever got Birdie back, she would know how much I appreciated her perfections.
“Go over there right now and tell Birdie you are looking forward to working together or you’re out of the damn will.”
“Daddy—”
“Go. Both of you. And it has to be convincing. Birdie is a better person than this whole damn family for putting up with me this long and we are going to make it up to her.”
I watched with narrowed eyes as they both moved over to where Birdie was getting fitted for Christine’s dress—her breasts overflowing in the tight bodice, making my cock twitch uncontrollably.
She was going to be like dynamite on this stage.
And I’d known it ever since the first moment I saw her.
I had been bored as hell that season, the last one of my contract, and I was tired of hearing the same damn style of singing, the same damn overly-produced and hyper-aware voices.
So when Birdie strolled onto that stage, dressed casually as hell in a long, colorful skirt and T-shirt, I sat up straight. There was something about her luscious curves, the way her hair was untamed and beautiful, the curls a whole riot, that was different.
And when she opened her mouth to sing—holy hell.
Her voice.
It was rich, low, sultry, and so very very tempting.
She sung with such pure pleasure too, not caring about anything but how the sounds felt, and the look she gave me sent heat pounding down to my cock.
Confident, unconcerned, deeply sensual.
I knew as soon as I saw her that we had a soul-connection, that here were two people who both deeply felt the music in the same ways.
And I knew she wasn’t a gold-digger, but I had treated her like she was, like her voice was for me only, instead of an extraordinary talent she had ambition to share.
“Don’t fuck this up,” Lulabel broke into my reverie in a sugar-sweet voice as she walked past with a plate of chocolate-chip cookies for the cast.
Great, now it was confirmed all of my ex-wives and my hopeful future wife probably expected this production to fail.
This production could not fail. Birdie had to know how committed I was to her success and not jealously keeping her voice to myself.
Even though every time I saw Birdie even get close to Francois, who was playing the Phantom, I wanted to fuck shit up, her fangs extended to bite into his throat and all I could think about was I fucked up so badly.
Unwillingly, I scrolled a few headlines about the upcoming show.
There was more attention on Phantom of the Bloody Opera than ever, all of it focused around the scandalous fact that I’d hired the woman I’d recently—left—at the altar.
There was that repulsive idiotic word again. Left. I hated it. In my head I had never ever intended to leave Birdie anywhere.
But I absolutely had thought I had the power and pull over my fiancée to make her pause and wait for me, let me get a little taste of Phee begging for another chance, before I went back.
And I had made a major miscalculation of my own goddamn appeal.
Fuck, I needed to get some better headlines out there.
Birdie was never going to forgive me with these headlines.
They framed me as the rejector. Her as the loser. I needed headlines that flipped the narrative. I needed something to even us out.
I needed a damn miracle to get her back.