Buying a ticket to Bethany’s last show at the box office feels more illicit than an arms deal. It feels dirtier than double-crossing a man I thought was supposed to be a brother-in-arms. It feels like I’m the world’s biggest scumbag, and a stalker on top of that. Which is accurate.
I am being a fucking stalker. There’s a certain level of guilt that comes with that, but not nearly enough to make me stop. In fact what I’m really struggling with is the urge to find Bethany in her dressing room, throw her over my shoulder, and hide her away forever. What I’m doing is bad, but what I want to do is worse.
I behave myself because I can pretend to be a gentleman under the right circumstances. I won’t fuck up her last show, no matter how badly I want to. Liam and Samantha have front row seats to the final show. They’re somewhere in the sea of people. Above us, in one of the boxes, is her brother and his entourage. He’s still a crazy fucker, but he does actually care about his sister.
Me? I’m in the back row. From here I can see everything. I can feel everything.
And it’s not what I expected.
Honestly I thought I was coming here to assuage my own guilt over being a piece of shit. I’m not dumb enough to think I didn’t break her heart. I know I did. It was written all over her face. Let’s not forget that I have prior experience in the matter. I know exactly what I did. Tonight was
supposed to be proof that she still had something to love in her life, even if I wasn’t worthy of her heart.
The performance gives me a sinking feeling.
Bethany moves under the lights like she always has. Effortlessly. In defiance of gravity. She spins and lifts and bends her body in ways that I always thought were an expression of deep joy. But I was too fucking blinded by lust to look at her face. I’m looking now. The smile locked into place is fake. It’s for show. For the patrons. It’s the same one she was wearing when I caught her delivering the glass of champagne to that douchebag in the lobby.
Nobody around me has any idea.
They ooh and aah and clap and gasp. A woman to my left catches me staring, grim and horrified. They have no idea. They think this is all real. That she loves putting herself on display for their entertainment. That she wants nothing more than to be seen as a body in motion. It’s not much better than Connor tying her to the barre with his belt. It’s fucking sick.
The standing ovation takes me by surprise.
I’m not prepared for the song to end. I’ve been too disheartened by this new version of Bethany. I can see right through her facade. Jesus, she’s good. I believed it. I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. What the hell does that say about me? Nothing good.
Nothing has ever been good about me, and this is no exception.
When she takes her final bow, I wipe my hands against my jacket. My skin feels dirty just watching this. I’m garbage, just like the rest of these people. Worse. Because I bought the ticket to make myself feel better, when she’s the one who’s empty. No joy on her face. No joy in her heart. She’s just doing Landon’s bidding. It has nothing to do with her. Even when the crowd gets on their feet for a standing ovation, Bethany wears the same blank smile.
Fucking heartbreaking.
I’m ready to escape, several steps down the aisle, when the lights go back down. What the hell? The audience doesn’t know what to do with this. “What are they doing?” an old woman to my right says in a tremulous voice. “Is there an encore?”
Marlena takes center stage then, a portable mic in her hand. I didn’t recognize her in the ensemble without her sultry attitude. She puts on a hint of it now while she speaks into the mic. “Good evening.”
Those two words are enough of a cue for everyone to take their seats. Everyone who’s interested, anyway. Some people—assholes—file out through the side doors and let them shut loudly behind them.
“We’ve prepared a special finale.” Marlena’s voice is smooth. Unafraid.
Landon looms in the wings on stage right. He looks fucking furious. So it was a surprise for him, too. Good. Marlena does something to the bottom of the mic and flies on tiptoe to intercept him. She drags him back into the shadows.
A single beam of light lands on the stage. Bethany’s there, her head bowed.
She’s changed out of her costume and into a simple black leotard and pale pink tights. It’s the costume a child would wear for ballet class, but no one could mistake her body for a child’s. For a moment she stands perfectly still.
My heart trips over several empty beats.
The music comes in. One. Two. Three. A different beat. Something dark and fast, like a river at night. Like the molten core at the center of the earth.
Bethany comes alive. I’ve never seen her dance like this. Not once. These steps—they’re something totally new. But I recognize them as intimately as I’d recognize her skin under the palms of my hands or the roll of her hips when she comes. I’ve felt this every time we’ve ever touched.
It’s the essence of her. The power of her.
Her performance fills the room. The music in the air and the sound of her skin connecting with the stage are the only things I can hear. All other noise is irrelevant.
All other people are irrelevant.
I’m entranced by her. Consumed with her. The real her. This woman. This queen. When the music stops, its echo ringing through the auditorium, I’m the first to my feet. She might never know I was here. I might never have the chance to tell her. So I clap until my hands feel raw, until my throat feels tight with emotion, and then I clap some more. In this moment I’m not anyone special. I’m just a man who loves her—like every other man in this room. Every other woman. We’re all in her thrall. We’re all her subjects as she gives us a simple, elegant curtsy and exits the stage.