“Anyway… Thanks for acting like a real husband and picking something I’ll actually enjoy. It’s been a long time since I’ve—” Stopping myself from opening up, I turn my face toward the window as the car rolls to a smooth stop in front of Lincoln Center.
Outside, there are bright lights. Dangerous crowds and waiting flashbulbs.
The car door opens, and the sounds of the city rush inside. Photographers hang out behind velvet ropes, lenses lifted, waiting for a shot worth publishing. And shots of this union are worth big bucks.
Kingston takes the lead and steps out first, a wall of tailored black and restrained power.
Checking out the surroundings, he bends and offers his hand to me because he always has to control how I enter the public beside him.
Playing my part, I set my hand in his and ignore the rush I get from being next to a handsome man like him while the crowd shouts for his attention.
His hand moves to the small of my back, the pressure firm and unmistakably possessive. A silent warning to anyone watching that I belong to him, even if false vows are the only thing binding us.
His body presses tight to mine, the protective weight of his presence unsubtle and deeply intimate.
Flashbulbs spark like tiny explosions around us as we walk toward the entrance.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Smile, wife. Not for them—for me.”
I gaze up at him and find myself willingly obeying because I can’t help myself.
Inside the grand lobby, the hush of prestige replaces the mayhem of the street. An older man in a tux steps forward the second we enter.
“Mr. and Mrs. Viacava,” he says. “We’re honored to have you join us thisevening. Please follow me.”
Kingston nods once, the barest motion of acknowledgment, then guides me forward, still keeping that steady hand at the base of my spine.
We’re led up a private staircase, down a long corridor, and into a private balcony that’s wide and grand, with sweeping views of the stage below.
Between two plush armchairs sits a small table and a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.
For a moment, I forget how to be cool. Or even angry at my situation because this is somewhere I used to dream about and being here now knocks the breath from my lungs.
I giggle, absolutely giddy despite myself.
“I always dreamed I’d be here one day.” I walk to the railing, fingertips brushing the polished edge. “I just never imagined it’d be in heels instead of with a violin in my hands. My da hated hearing me practice. He threatened to break my violin one day, but my ma let me play when he wasn’t around.”
I glance back at Kingston, expecting the usual cocky smirk on his gorgeous face. Instead, he offers me the rarest of smiles.
Not the cold, strategic curl of his lips I’ve come to expect from him. Rather it’s a genuine curl of his lips that tells me he’s not performing.
“Glad I could make your dreams come true,” he says.
Before I can reply, the house lights dim and the crowd takes a collective breath in anticipation.
Goosebumps shower my scalp when the first aching notes of Mahler’s Fifth rise from the pit like smoke, haunting, beautiful, and impossibly powerful in the hush of the room.
I close my eyes and for a moment I absorb the emotions, letting myself belong.
After a few minutes, I back up and sink into the velvet armchair beside him, hands resting in my lap. The lights cast everything in warm gold and shadow, cloaking us in the illusion of privacy as if we’re alone in a cathedral built for music and secrets.
Below, the conductor raises his baton, and the orchestra plays as one.
Strings pull the silence apart, one beautiful note at a time, and something in my chest loosens. Pure joy eclipses the war I’ve been thrown into and I forget about the hate in my heart.
Music wraps around me, dark and chaotic. Horns clash with violins, cellos weep beneath violas. It’s war and grief and devotion. A haunting mash-up of all the emotions bubbling in my chest.
Although Kingston doesn’t move, his gaze is heavy and focused on me, adding another layer to this moment in a way the music never could.
