“Nina, babe. Fifteen minutes.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Oh my god. No one gets to be on this stage.” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“I know. You almost didn’t.” I laugh.
She has no idea how much I have paid for the measly fifteen minutes I had to beg for, but the look on her face right now makes it worth every penny.
I walk a few rows down the auditorium and find a seat, spreading my legs to make myself comfortable as I wait.
My finger taps on the velvet armrest relentlessly.
I hope she can dance okay in her dress.
The lights go down, and I suddenly feel nervous, my throat growing tight and my palms sweating. I run my pointer finger over my lip, my knee bouncing.
But then my angel is lit up in a single spotlight.
The music begins, and she starts to move. Everything disappears, my eyes riveted to her, held completely captive by the pull she has on me. The lean lines of her body ripple as each muscle is pulled taut under the smooth skin. The passion and emotion that she puts into every expression and move she makes has me mesmerised.
I sit with a heavy ache in my chest, feeling not only honoured to be watching this woman dance but incredibly proud of every part of who she is.
She holds it together for the entire four minutes, hitting every step with perfect precision, but as the curtain falls, I stand. All the emotion she exerted on stage falling on my shoulders.
She will need a moment to catch her breath. I know that. But I’m unwilling to give it to her—because I need her more.
“Nina,” I call, climbing onto the stage and pulling back the curtain. “Angel.”
She stands in the same spot, right as she was when the curtain fell.
“That was incredible,” she whispers, her eyes finding mine, brimming with unshed tears.
My world stops spinning with the look in her eyes.
On the Palais Garnier stage, I pull the box from my tux pocket, flipping the lid and taking her hand in mine.
“Before my mother died, she had this little Pixie.” Nina’s eyes bore into mine, transfixed and filled with untamed adoration. “She kept it on her bedside table, and every evening I’d sneak in before bed and steal it. The day she died, she told me to go and get my Pixie. I did, but when I came back to her, she was gone.” I pause, biting into my bottom lip and stealing a moment.
“Mase, you don’t have to—”
“My father told me she wanted me to keep it. Her little glass Pixie.” I smile at the ground as I’m taken aback. It’s been so long since I’ve let the memories in. Her hand squeezes mine, and my gaze comes back to her.
“I took it everywhere with me, never allowing it out of my sight. It became a thing. I was slightly obsessed.”
She laughs lightly, stepping into me. “You loved your mother’s Pixie,” she defends.
I shake my head, needing to finish. “When I was six years old, two years after my mother passed, Elliot—the big idiot that he is—broke it. He didn’t mean to, but I went mad, punched him in the face and swore I’d never forgive him. So… he promised me that he would replace it, that he would find me anotherPixie.”
She shakes her head, finally understanding.
“I loved my Pixie then, Nina, and I love my Pixie now,” I tell her, my heart beating strong and sure in my chest.
I lift her bangle from the box and slide it onto her wrist. “This is fromme.” I spin it around so she can see the added engraving on the back.
“I promise you forever, my Pixie,” she chokes out as her tears start to fall down her cheeks.
* * *
Nina
