Rogue Knight (Rogues of Manhattan #3)
Prologue
PROLOGUE
EMERSON
Five Years Ago – Aged 19
Manhattan
“Next up, we have…”
Hans Liebermann, the director, trails off as he searches the sheet on the clipboard before him, turning his gaze toward backstage when he curtly calls out, “Emerson Hart.”
I step out onto the stage and slowly make my way to the center. My legs are shaky, and my confidence is at an all-time low, yet once I reach my destination, I stand tall and unblinking in the spotlight.
“Interesting choice.” Liebermann’s deep voice fills the space as a sudden feeling of indecision swarms in my belly. “You’ve arranged to sing ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ from?—”
“I’ve prepared another piece…” My interruption rings out, echoing off the walls of the theater. His brows almost hit his salt-and-pepper hairline, and I cringe internally, knowing I’ve surely fucked the whole thing up.
Even so, I power on, determined to at least get through my fourth-ever theater audition so that I can file away what I’ve learned from it. So I can follow the dream my mother had for me before we lost her far too soon.
“I wish to sing ‘On My Own.’”
My stepsister, Hayley, sucks in a surprised breath from stage right, where she’s watching, waiting for her turn, alongside our agent, Beckham Reynolds, who I’m sure is fuming mad. Seeing as I’m auditioning for the role of éponine, the character who sings this song in Les Misérables , I know it’s most likely not a good move.
I’m a character actor. I can ad-lib with ease, and when required to sing, I know I’m better suited to a livelier piece because it helps to hide my vocal inconsistencies.
Not to mention, three of the previous seven auditionees have already performed it today, so I’m likely to get lost in the shuffle.
But I need to disappear into the depths of despair alongside her. I need to feel someone else’s pain aside from my own.
My heart throbs, remembering how I’d returned home earlier this week to an empty brownstone and a terse note that simply read:
I can’t do it.
My excitement for this audition immediately plummeted, and now that I’m here, there’s no way I can muster the pizazz required to pull off the Streisand number.
But heartache? Desperation?
A bone-deep sadness that claws at your gut, refusing to let go? That hurts more with every inhalation? With every reluctant beat of your splintered heart?
That I can do. Even without preparation, I can feel it within my soul.
I am éponine.
And so, I stand taller, squaring my shoulders with a quirked eyebrow that dares him to deny my request.
Liebermann’s eyes bore into mine as a frown forms on his face, and I unwaveringly hold his stare until the edge of his mouth tips upward when he nods once.
“Begin.”
The accompanist plays the opening notes, and as I inhale in readiness for my first bars, I feel the entire stage and my surroundings melt into nothingness. It’s only me and éponine and our combined pain in existence.
I feel every single word as the melody enfolds me in her somber embrace, and I cling desperately to the solace she provides.
As the song spills from my lips, my chest aches. My breathing stutters not once but twice as the emotions I’ve carried all week flood my senses, yet when I reach the crescendo, my tone is pitch-perfect, holding that note until I’m breathless.
Feeling my knees weaken, I lower myself to the stage floor and inhale shakily. I allow my eyelids to close as I manage to finish the piece with éponine’s heartbreaking declaration resonating around me. Within me.
I love him. I love him.
The words catch in my emotion-clogged throat, and I shake my head, attempting to dispel the fog surrounding me as I finish.
I love him… But only…
My breath hitches, and I miss the last note the accompanist plays. The darkness behind my closed eyelids is a welcome reprieve from the simple pain of being as my voice follows in a bare whisper.
On my own…
The silence that ensues brings me back to the present, and when I open my eyes, my gaze is drawn to the farthest shadowy corner of the theater. I blink through my blurred vision several times, suddenly conscious when tears track along my cheeks, and I’m altogether sure I’ve made a complete mess of everything until a single clap makes me jerk upright.
Another clap follows, and another, and my forehead creases when I tear my eyes away from the darkened space, focusing on a smiling Liebermann instead. His applause quickens as I push myself to stand and shoot a confused glance at a wide-eyed Hayley.
“Brava.”
At Liebermann’s single word, my eyes pan back to him as he rises and moves closer. His feet eat the ground when he jogs up the stairs and onto the stage. Once we’re toe-to-toe, he clasps my hands between his much larger ones as his eyes bore into mine.
“Blonde hair aside, you’re precisely what I had envisioned in my éponine.” His eyes flicker between mine as my heart races. I’ve never seen an audition go like this for anyone before, least of all me. I’m good, not great, and though I have a passion for theater and acting in general, my true desire lies in fulfilling Mom’s dying wish. To follow her steps into the theater and all the wonders of acting. “I guarantee you are destined for greatness, Miss Hart, and the first step toward it shall be to grace this stage every night and twice on Sundays for at least the next six months.”
I blink owlishly, goosebumps of anticipation pebbling my skin, not quite grasping what he’s saying, and I can’t keep the incredulity from my voice when I stammer, “You…you want me? After that…”
I trail off, wondering desperately what Liebermann saw in me that made him offer me the part on the spot. He barks a laugh before throwing his arm over my shoulder and spinning me to face the would-be audience. Extending his free arm dramatically, he showcases the empty seats before us.
“You’ll bring down the house every night if you can reproduce that level of raw emotion.” Then he angles his head toward me, delight evident in his gaze. “Be my éponine, Miss Hart. Step out of the shadows of obscurity and into the spotlight with me.”