The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

The cavernous room was full, with most guests enjoying a cocktail before heading inside to find their seats. I went to the bar, ordered a glass of white wine, and snapped a few pics for Instagram while waiting for Macalister and Evangeline to arrive.

There weren’t many faces I recognized as I surveyed the crowd. I had a few friends who’d take any excuse to dress up and try to make the society pages, but it wasn’t likely there were many photographers here at an opera premiere hoping to catch a glimpse of celebrities.

Wait . . . was that Richard Shaunessy?

He was the last person I would have expected to like the opera, but then Blythe Andrews appeared at his side, carrying two drinks, and passed one to him. That made sense. She’d been a big theatre freak in high school and tried to make it in New York for a time, but it hadn’t worked out. I hadn’t heard they were dating yet, which meant this was probably their first time.

She was way too pretty and nice for him, but I smiled to myself. I bet she knew what she was doing. She’d wrangled a date out of him to this black-tie opera premiere because she wanted to go . . . not because she wanted to spend time with cokehead Richard.

“Sophia,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind me.

Looking forward to seeing you tonight.

I wanted to shiver but commanded my shoulders not to move. Macalister had told me there was nothing between him and Evangeline, but I still had to mentally prepare myself for a long night of them looking like a couple.

He’d always looked good in a tux. It was the same classic one he usually wore with a black bowtie and white shirt with pleats and a line of black buttons down the front. His ice-colored eyes skated down my body from head to toe, taking in my dress. He’d seen it earlier—I’d texted him a picture of the one-shoulder dress that was such a soft pink, in certain lighting it looked white. It had an oversized bow on the shoulder, one large loop of it dropping down over my front. The skirt was A-line and had a slit all the way to my hip, but it was unlikely anyone would catch the band of white lace on my underwear there.

I’d already shown it to the one person I wanted to see.

I felt amazing in this dress, and a big part of it was the way Macalister was looking at me. Which he shouldn’t be, even as it made me dizzy and my heart beat faster. “Where’s Evangeline?”

“She messaged when I was on my way to pick her up. She’s ill.”

“Oh, no. She’s not coming?”

His eyes didn’t reveal whatever he was thinking. “No. You will take her place and join me in the box.”

A thrill flashed through me, and I clutched my wine tighter, hoping my eagerness didn’t show. The boxes were on the same level as the balcony, meaning the people inside were often visible to much of the audience. I dropped my voice and glanced around. “You think that’s okay?”

He gave a pointed stare. “I won’t sit by myself.”

He was right; it would look strange to see him there all alone. I swallowed thickly, keeping an even tone while my insides raced with excitement. “All right.”

The theatre itself was just as beautiful as the lobby had been. Gold filigree and ornate plasterwork decorated the arch over the black stage. The rich red curtain was trimmed in gold fringe and draped closed across the stage.

The box was its own separate balcony, and the two armchairs in it were wide, with low backs and the cushions covered in plush red velvet. The chairs angled toward the front, and as I took the seat to Macalister’s left, I felt like I was on stage. Rather than sing to the audience from the balcony like Eva Perón, I looked down at the playbill in my hand.

“What language is this opera in?” Macalister asked as he unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and lowered in his chair.

“English. It’s a modern opera that premiered in Chicago, and they’ve been trying to bring it here for a while. Your grant made that possible.”

There was an edge of relief in his eyes. He was glad it’d be in a language he understood. “I wasn’t aware opera could be in English. I thought those were musicals.”

I shrugged. “I thought so too, but no.”

When we went quiet, I plucked up my wine and took a sip. I was so fucking nervous, I thought I’d explode, and it was stupid. How many mornings had we been alone in his office discussing secrets? Sure, we’d sat across from each other, rather than together, and we’d been wearing business clothes rather than black-tie, but . . .