Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Pippa
Rhett and I make our way through the gilded doors into the theater.
My heels sink into the plush red carpet, and the scent of old velvet and expensive perfume mingles in the air.
All around us, people settle into their seats, chatting softly in a dozen languages. The atmosphere hums with anticipation.
I can’t wipe the smug little smile off my face.
But beneath my smile is something else. A tug low in my chest. George is here.
And he looked at me like he couldn’t believe his freaking eyes.
I keep picturing his face and grinning. It’s a great start.
I’d engineered and staged that whole bump into him routine, reveled in the shock on his face, in the way his eyes trailed down my dress as if he has never seen me before.
It couldn’t have gone better really. I should be floating on air, triumphant, basking in the glow of his jaw literally dropping at the sight of me in this dress.
And yet, there’s a part of me that’s gutted about the whole encounter.
Because no matter how flustered he got at seeing me, he’s still here with another woman, and it still stings, that thought of him with someone else.
His hand was resting on her back, the way it used to rest on mine.
The thought that he might be happy. Moving on.
I tell myself I’m fine. Of course, I can’t expect sunshine and rainbows to happen without some elbow grease.
The main thing is I won that round. And Wednesday will give me another chance to twist the knife, to remind him exactly what he threw away.
Maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to make him realize what he lost, to make him want me again.
That thought is the ember I keep tucked inside of me, warm and hopeful.
Rhett steers me towards our seats, near the center of the grand circle, the view stretching out over the rows of crimson velvet chairs and gilded balconies that curve like a golden horseshoe.
The huge chandelier glitters above us, a thousand crystals catching the light.
The orchestra pit below us is alive with soft tuning, a cacophony of strings and woodwinds that somehow feels like magic waiting to happen.
“This is incredible,” I whisper, sinking into the plush seat.
Rhett smiles, leaning close enough that I catch the faintest whiff of his cologne. It’s nice. It smells clean, spicy, and expensive.
As I smooth my dress over my lap, the house lights dim a fraction. The crowd hushes, and the buzz of conversation lowers to a soft hum. Then, suddenly, Rhett leans toward me, his voice low, conspiratorial.
“Don’t look down. Six o’clock.”
Which of course, means I instinctively do look down.
My gaze sweeps to the stalls below us, where the cheaper seats are.
Rhett’s client must like him a lot to give him tickets to these seats.
They are amazing seats, the best view in the house.
As I look down, there, unmistakable even from this distance, is George. He is looking up. Right at me.
The air snags in my throat. He’s tipped back in his seat, his jaw tense, his eyes locked on me with an intensity that jolts through my chest. For a split second, it’s as though no one else exists in this vast, glittering hall but the two of us.
Old memories crowd in, memories of lazy Sunday mornings, whispered promises, his lips brushing the inside of my wrist …
And then Rhett moves beside me, breaking the spell. Before I can process what’s happening, his hand slides to my jaw, tilting my face toward his, and his mouth lands on mine and possessively crushes my lips.
The shock of his kiss stuns me and steals my breath. It knocks every thought out of me. His lips are firm, commanding, tasting faintly of champagne. Whoa! Even if it is staged to catch George’s attention, it feels completely and utterly real.
Then my body betrays me. Heat surges through me like a wild blaze, making my toes curl in my shoes. Raw electricity snakes through my whole body, fizzing, sparkling, and catching fire. A quiver starts between my legs, and every nerve ending starts vibrating like a tuning fork.
My mouth parts beneath his, my hand grips the fabric of his jacket. My heart is pounding so hard that I swear he must feel it against his chest. The world tilts, the chandelier blurs, and there’s nothing – nothing - except the shocking chemistry sizzling between us.
By the time he pulls back from me, the lights have lowered fully, and the curtain is stirring. I sit there dazed, my lips tingling, my breathing shallow.
What the hell was that?
No one has ever kissed me like that. Ever.
Not George. Not anyone. My mind scrambles for excuses, for rationalizations.
It was just for show. Just to sell the act.
A performance, like everything else we’ve done.
But deep inside, I know that wasn’t all it was.
That wasn’t acting. That was fire. At least, on my part.
I drag my gaze back down, half dreading what I’ll see.
George is staring up at me again, his expression thunderous, his shoulders tight.
I get a small amount of pleasure from knowing that I did that.
That I have the power to make him feel a fraction of how I have felt these last few weeks.
His date leans toward him as if speaking, though he doesn’t appear to hear a word.
And for the first time since I met him, I don’t care if I’ve hurt him.
Let him look crestfallen. Let him stew. Because he hurt me first. He threw me over and found a blonde to replace me. So, fuck him. He deserves it. Right now, I can still taste Rhett on my lips, and the memory alone makes my skin tingle, and a shiver runs through me.
The overture swells, violins slicing through the air with aching beauty that feels like they are playing it just for me. Because that is the way my heart feels. It feels swollen. The curtain finally rises.
I try to focus. I really do.
The stage is a feast for the eyes with ornate sets painted like oil masterpieces, actors in sumptuous costumes from times gone by. The music rises and falls, carrying me on waves of sound so powerful they press against my chest.
But my mind is fractured. Half of me is still stuck in that kiss, replaying it on a loop, cataloguing every sensation from the press of Rhett’s lips to the way his hand lingered against my cheek to the shocking hunger he aroused in me.
That was unexpected. I never thought I would ever feel anything like that in my life.
I thought I was into safe and dependable.
Here is danger, and I’m openly flirting with it.
Even my pulse hasn’t settled yet. My body is humming, restless, alive in ways I hate to admit.
The other half of me keeps darting back to George.
I could never give him up. Not after I’ve invested so much time and energy into him.
Certainly not for the scent of danger, and a fling with a foreigner.
Rhett will finish his stint in London and go back to America and then, what will I do?
Every so often, I risk a glance down at George.
Sometimes he’s watching the stage. Sometimes he’s sneaking a look up at me.
Our eyes catch once, briefly, before I snap mine away, my heart clenching with a bittersweet ache.
And guilt. I’ve never been unfaithful to him. Not even my thoughts … until now.
Rhett shifts beside me, his knee brushes mine, his hand resting warm on the armrest between us.
The soprano launches into an anguished aria that soars like something unearthly.
It’s not the same as listening to the radio or a music player.
Her voice fills the hall, raw with passion, climbing higher and higher until I swear the walls themselves must be vibrating with the sound.
A shiver races down my spine, and unexpected tears prickle in my eyes.
I’ve read the storyline in English. Just like me, she too is torn between two men.
I glance at Rhett, and he’s watching me instead of the stage. His expression is unreadable, somewhere between curiosity and surprise, but soft, too. Like he’s pleased I’m moved.
I quickly look away, flustered and confused by my reactions to Rhett.
The act unfolds, all tragedy, love, and betrayal, and though I miss chunks of the story because it’s in Italian and I’m still wrestling with my own traitorous thoughts.
I catch enough to be swept along. There’s a grandeur to it, an unapologetic intensity that makes my own life feel suddenly smaller. Safe and passionless.
When the curtain falls for the last time, and the audience erupts in a thunderstorm of applause, I clap frantically too, my palms tingling. I feel breathless as if I’ve run a race. I turn to Rhett, my lips parting, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“That was … I don’t even have words. Incredible. Beautiful. I … I think I’ve fallen in love with opera.”
His smile is slow, smug, as if he’s won something. “And it just took one evening to convert you.”
I laugh, shaking my head, though inside I’m still reeling. From the performance. From the kiss. From the jealous way George looked at me. From how tempted I was by the scent of danger, but rose above it.
Maybe this whole plan is working better than I imagined. Or maybe it’s spiraling completely out of my control.