Chapter 3
Amanda
Okay, so maybe I wasn’t prepared to see him again.
Alessio Figueroa.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.
And definitely not physically.
Because, good Lord above, the man looks even better than he did three years ago.
Which feels wildly unfair, considering he’s the one who walked away without a word.
When I saw him standing there on the tarmac earlier, my brain completely short-circuited for a second.
Like someone had slammed the rewind button on my life and dropped me straight back into the past.
Except the past didn’t look like this.
Back then he was dangerous in that quiet, mysterious way that made my pulse race.
Now?
Now he’s bigger.
Harder.
His shoulders fill out that black jacket like it was painted onto him.
The sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal tattooed forearms and strong hands that I remember very, very well.
And his face—God.
Same dark eyes.
Same sharp cheekbones.
Same mouth that used to make promises in the middle of the night.
Except now there’s something else there too.
Something colder.
Something guarded.
Like he’s built a fortress around himself and posted armed guards at every door.
Three years.
You learn a lot in three years.
And I learned a very hard lesson at his hands.
Don’t rely on anyone but yourself.
Don’t build your life around a man.
And never trust someone who disappears without even the courtesy of a goodbye.
So yeah.
Seeing him again?
It rattled me.
But it doesn’t change anything.
I’m not the same woman he left behind.
Back then I was still hustling through ensemble roles, waiting for someone to notice me.
Waiting for my chance.
Now?
Now I’m finally where I always dreamed I’d be.
Headlining.
My phone buzzed with the official confirmation two weeks ago.
Oliver Pax himself wants me to lead the cast of his new production next fall.
A brand-new Phantom retelling.
Haunting the Met.
On Broadway.
My name above the title.
I’ve worked my entire life for that moment.
Years of auditions.
Tiny apartments.
Voice lessons that drained every last dollar from my bank account.
Now everything is finally coming together.
My career.
My future.
My independence.
Which makes it especially irritating that one look at Less still sends a warm, traitorous flutter through my stomach.
I hate that.
I hate him for that.
But apparently, my heart never got the memo.
Because if anything, he looks even more devastating now.
Great.
Just great.
Debra passes us off to one of the estate staff who leads us through a wide set of glass doors and down a long hallway toward the performance space Mr. Carter built specifically for this event.
“Miss Perkins, your bags and your bodyguard’s bags will be brought to your room. The stage is ready whenever you are,” the coordinator tells me politely.
“Thank you.”
I step inside.
And forget about Less for the first time since the plane landed.
Because the stage is beautiful.
It’s not huge, but it’s elegant—polished wood floors, velvet curtains, a grand piano positioned stage left, and a small orchestra pit just below.
Warm, golden lights illuminate the space.
It’s intimate.
Perfect for a private performance.
Exactly the kind of environment where I can lose myself in the music.
Which is exactly what I need right now.
I drop my purse near the piano and stretch my arms above my head, rolling out my shoulders.
Focus, Amanda.
You didn’t come here to spiral over some man who ghosted you three years ago.
You came here to sing.
The pianist—an older gentleman Carter hired for the evening—nods as I step toward the center of the stage.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
I inhale slowly.
Let the breath settle into my ribs.
Let the tension slide out of my shoulders.
Music.
This is the one place in the world where everything makes sense.
Where heartbreak turns into something beautiful instead of something painful.
The pianist begins.
Soft chords filling the room.
I close my eyes.
And I sing.
The sound pours out of me like it always does—strong, clear, alive.
The music wraps around my lungs, my chest, my whole body.
For a few blessed minutes, nothing exists except the melody.
Not the billionaire’s mansion.
Not mysterious threats.
And definitely not the tall, infuriating bodyguard standing somewhere in this building.
Until the unmistakable sensation of being watched prickles across my skin.
I open my eyes.
And there he is.
Leaning against the back wall.
Arms crossed.
Dark eyes locked on me.
Less.
And he’s staring at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
My voice wavers for half a second before I recover the note.
Damn him.
He hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t spoken.
He’s just watching.
Like he used to.
Like he’s memorizing every breath I take.
The song ends.
The last note fades.
Silence hangs in the air.
The pianist smiles politely.
“That was stunning.”
“Thank you.”
But my attention is fixed on the man in the shadows.
Less pushes off the wall slowly and walks toward the stage.
Every step deliberate.
Every movement controlled.
Like a predator approaching something fragile.
My heart betrays me by beating faster.
I cross my arms.
“Are you planning to supervise my rehearsals, too?”
His mouth twitches faintly.
“Just doing my job.”
“Which part?”
“Making sure nothing happens to you.”
I tilt my head.
“Well, congratulations.”
I gesture around the empty room.
“Looks like I survived rehearsal.”
His gaze moves over my face carefully.
Checking.
Assessing.
Like he’s cataloging every detail.
“You always were amazing,” he says quietly.
The words hit harder than they should.
I look away first.
Because if I don’t, I might remember exactly why I fell for him in the first place.
And that would be a very bad idea.